Spare Change

Finally. They’re going to let me move into the house. I’m going to have a home again, Baby. Queen Creek approved the electric blueprints and in a couple of weeks I’ll move into the home you made sure I’d have.

You were my home. You were always my home. You knew that, didn’t you? God, I hope you knew that. I know you’re close by. You keep sending me signs so I’ll know you see me. And hear me. But I can’t see you. I keep breathing by faith, believing that I’m really hearing you, seeing your real-time love notes, and knowing you’re near.

Like the dimes. I found the first one lying on the ground beside my truck when I stopped at a gas station on the way to your memorial service last summer. It seemed odd because normally I only see pennies, so I picked it up and dropped it in the tray in the truck. The next day it happened again. Then I learned that dimes are often an encouragement that our love is close, so I kept keeping them, however they appeared, as long as it was simply . . . dimes.

That’s how I know the one I found in my pocket last week was from you. A shiny new 2022 dime. At the very moment my heart cried out in that desperate prayer I’ve been reduced to since you left—“Help”—a dime suddenly showed up. I’d washed and vacuumed the truck that morning, cleaning out that little console tray and putting the treasured collection of dimes in my pocket. I returned them all when I was finished. But one of them was a stowaway, I guess. I was sure I’d put them all back. And maybe I did. There’s always a logical explanation for the signs, it seems. But there’s no explanation for the timing.

I tell people I have an investment in heaven now that you’re there, but it feels like more than that. I walk around in this dimension only half listening while my ear is pressed up hard against the one where you are. Half in and half out, this is my new existence. Listening with my spirit feels like talking with someone underwater. Or learning a new language. It’s not as easy as some people make it sound which leads me to think they’re just repeating things they’ve heard other people say. I’m learning to tell the difference between fresh baked bread and the reheated stuff.

I’m also learning to depend on God the way I once depended on you. I’ve always struggled with that. Guilt is crippling and confusing. I think church teaching has messed up the simplicity of two imperfect hearts becoming one. I still hear people say that if you love someone too much or focus on them too hard, you’re making them into an idol. Where did that kind of lie come from? Like I need to ask. When your body died—because I know you’re very much alive—and we were wrenched away from each other, half of me was gone. Katy told people we were bleeding out. Absolutely accurate. There’s no way to prepare for that.

And there’s no good reason to feel guilty about it. With all our failures and faults and frailties, you and I became one, the way sugar and tea, dissolved into a new creation, become sweet tea. Or this— “A cord of three strands is not easily broken.” Losing you was a shock to my system that has taken over a year just to wake up from. Shock does that to you. But I’ve stayed active. Reached out to friends. Paid my bills. Put on makeup every day. All the things. But now it feels as though the anesthesia is wearing off and throbbing pain is what I live with daily as I go forward. Slowly forward, but forward without you nonetheless.

I had another fight with you last night. I guess you know that. I can hear you laughing at the absurdity of it the way you always did, even as I type this. That makes me smile. God, you were so adorable. I could never stay mad at you. I was describing the way you kept things to yourself. Things I wished you’d shared with me. It would have made me feel like I was a partner in all you faced if, for example, you’d let me help you study during fire school the way other wives helped their husbands. Or if I’d learned about your hair-raising shifts from you instead of learning about the close calls while you described them to our friends. You didn’t want to worry me, you said. I recognize that you were trying to protect me. But protecting me kept me in the dark.  I told you everything I ever thought about, described ad nauseum every event I experienced. Don’t deny it—I saw your eyes glaze over. I needed to be included by you in a way you weren’t able to do. Maybe that’s a guy thing. You don’t give details, you summarize. But friendship is a two-way street. This is probably something we should have handled while you were here in the flesh, but we weren’t good at that either. You hate conflict and I hate fighting alone.

So, I guess it wasn’t all that weird that I fought alone with you last night, telling you all of this, wishing we’d handled it while we had the chance, and recognizing that we did the best we could between our differing personalities, upbringings, and points of view. We were imperfect in every way, and perfectly suited for one another. Maybe that’s why you loved that song so much . . “Cause all of me loves all of you . . . all your perfect imperfections. . . ”

One of the miserable things I’ve dealt with this last year is all the rehashing and second guessing that’s so easy to drown in as I look back on our life together. The memories were stunted for a while, you know. Letting them resurface was too much for me for a long time. But now I can handle more of them and the pain that often accompanies them. Still, this Book of Rob and Eula is closed. All that’s left is the epilogue where I cross over to the other side and join you. So, I keep re-reading the novel we “wrote” together because there are no more pages to be added, wishing some chapters had turned out differently. If I’d changed that response or sacrificed that desire or trusted you better, what would that have looked like and why didn’t I do it? And why didn’t we communicate better before we lost that gift permanently?

The Cliff Notes of our novel could be reduced to one word if I allowed it—“Why?” But I won't. I think all the "why's" suggest that perfection is attainable, when it's not. And that’s the way our fight ended last night, with the recognition that you and I were human. We came into marriage as imperfect humans who simply loved one another and were willing to give marriage our best shot, warts and all. Expecting you to be perfect, expecting perfection from myself, these unrealistic expectations steal forgiveness and acceptance. Worse, they’re a setup for being fake. Inauthentic. Maybe now more than ever, I need to recognize that and let myself off the hook. You never pretended that I was perfect. You accepted me fully and loved me to your core. I did the same for you, although I’ll admit I sometimes called you Roby Poppins (because you were “practically perfect in every way.”)

So, maybe those dimes show up not only to remind me to pay attention in the moment and trust my instincts, but also as an invitation to talk with you still, even in spirit, about what it takes to survive the loss of you, my love. Maybe this is one way you’re able to help me get through this. “A penny for your thoughts,” the saying goes. Mine must be worth more than that or you wouldn’t keep paying me for them.

A dime for your thoughts, I hear you say. Keep dropping that spare change, Baby. I’ll keep talking.