A letter from a woman to her deceased husband – and to herself.
by Marcia McGreevy Lewis
Sweetie,
I’m recalling this day from a few years ago, a day of tumultuous emotions when love and regret battled fiercely within me. It began with a disheartening loss, one that left me feeling adrift.
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Here’s how it started.
“One morning Hedgehog found Mouse covering himself with leaves.” I snuggled in reading to our grandson, Brad, from The Mouse and the Hedgehog while his dad hooked up my new phone to my computer. He accomplished the task, but said as he was leaving, “You’re all set, but I’m sorry to say that your calendar and contacts are lost.”
“Thanks for your help,” I stammered as he left. The realization hit me like a wave crashing against the shore: my contacts, my calendar, my lifelines to the world – all gone in an instant. I stood there, grappling with the formidable prospect of hours I’d spend recompiling my contacts and navigating each day without my trusty calendar. It felt as though I had lost my anchor.
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“Let’s go,” I said to Brad, who stayed to play after his dad left. I popped him into my red wagon, and we embarked on an impromptu adventure to distract myself from the turmoil.
We filled the wagon with plump, orange pumpkins. “Now we’ll scoop out the squishy goo and roast the seeds,” I said. We carved monster faces, immersed the seeds in a sauce, and cooked them. Then we munched on the roasted seeds. When Brad returned to his home, I faced my once-gleaming new phone again, now stripped of its allure.
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I felt like a dog. I circled several times to land somewhere but couldn’t find a spot. My head was swimming, and I broke out in a sweat. An enormous editing task loomed over me, and preparations for a dinner gathering of fourteen loomed for tomorrow.
We had donated the dinner to an auction, and those who would attend had bid exorbitant sums. It was my duty to reward them for having gotten crazily carried away with their generosity. I’d polished the silver and bought the groceries, but food preparation remained daunting.
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You, my wonderful husband, offered condolence for my distress and volunteered your assistance. You set the table and then asked, “Where are the napkins?”
“In the cupboard in the living room,” was my impatient response.
“Which one?”
“The far one. Over there!” I snapped back, a sharp retort escaping my lips like a dagger.
I’m never short with you. I guess my stress level led me to be impatient with your not knowing where the napkins were, but why did I utter that piercing comment? The pain in your eyes mirrored the ache in my heart for the wound I had inflicted on the tender bond between us.
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I felt hollow, but I didn’t have time to face my crankiness because I had previously committed to keeping another grandson, Tim, for a couple of hours that day. When he arrived, God gave me the resolve to regain my composure.
“Let’s go outside and find beautiful fall leaves,” I said, as he toddled behind me. When we returned with bundles of leaves, I said, “Now let’s dump them all in the sink and wash them off.”
He loved to play in the water, so we cleaned the leaves, giggling while splashing each other. Then we dried the leaves and made russet orange, flaming red, and lime green arrangements for the dinner table. As I watched our grandson play, God gave me another gift of uplifting me to enjoy his laughter. That small moment of bonding reminded me of what mattered.
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When Tim left, I reached out to you with a heavy heart, seeking forgiveness. First John 1:9: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (NKJV).
The words spilled from my lips, each syllable heavy with the weight of my regret. As we stood together, hand in hand, you forgave me. I cherished our deep relationship more in that moment than I ever had. Thank you for finding love in the wreckage of my mistake.
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Hours later, the document I was editing looked good, so I now had time to call some colleagues to try to reconstruct my contact list. Fortunately, I’d memorized many phone numbers.
Then I began recreating my calendar. I entered the things I did on a predictable schedule and racked my brain for those that were unpredictable. I phoned people saying, “When did we plan to have dinner/ meet for coffee/ discuss the upcoming program?” I apologized repeatedly for my lack of memory.
I went to bed that night knowing I needed to start the next day with a sense of equanimity. I was perilously behind on dinner preparations, and the phone update was going to take months. But I needed to focus on what should have been my priority: reconnecting with you. I realized I needed to do some evaluating.
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You were a God-given gift to me, a kind, steadfast, and dependable man. You were always there, ready to support me. Your love was sometimes subtle. You washed my car, wrapped our grandchildren into our lives, and phoned me often. Sometimes your love was obvious. You suggested going out for dinner when you sensed I was busy, planned trips so we could spend uncluttered time together, and surprised me with thoughtful gifts.
My momentary lapses, like the one that day, seemed unfathomable when weighed against the depth of my affection for you. Why did I allow such fleeting irritations to surface when I loved you so deeply? Why jeopardize our extraordinary relationship when I knew its value?
I asked you to join me for a walk, a hopeful step toward rediscovering the harmony we shared. I apologized once more and expressed my profound gratitude for your presence in my life. Once again, you forgave me without hesitation. Your forgiveness was your consistent gift. “Be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble” (1 Peter 3:8, NIV).
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“Let’s get this dinner going,” you stated when we returned, and we cooked the auction dinner together. We found our way back to each other as we taste-tested the dinner, reveling in the joy of culinary creativity. It was as much fun as we had biking, skiing, or going out to dinner.
While my phone regained its functionality in spurts, I came to understand that it was the synchronization of our relationship that mattered. What I hadn’t anticipated was the mercurial nature of time that bit us. You died a few months after my outburst, accepting less from me than you deserved. We knew how to touch each other’s hearts, and I tested that.
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The importance of cherishing each precious moment we had together is crystal clear today. You made my life sing, and I needed to tell you so — clearly and often.
You’ll never receive this, so it’s a letter to myself acknowledging the profound gift you were to me. I will forever carry your acceptance and love in my heart.
Marcia McGreevy Lewis is a retired feature writer for a Washington newspaper. She has been published in literary journals, as well as in the Saturday Evening Post, Idaho Magazine, and Today’s Christian Living, among others. Marcia has also published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She lives in Seattle, WA.