Before I became a widow, I took life for granted.
I wasted one unappreciated hour after another on mindless hobbies, never considering how precious those hours might someday seem. Hobbies. Chores. Cleaning. Helping. Something to finish. Things that could have waited while I looked up and noticed a little more about the life happening around me.
I didn’t grasp the full value of a smile or the touch of a warm hand on a cold day. I ate meals without appreciating the precious time we were sharing. Even with my husband beside me, there were times I became cocooned in my own space. A space just big enough for one.
I couldn’t have known what was to come.
Before I became a widow, I saw things from a couple’s point of view. There were two of us to figure things out. Two people to carry the load. And somewhere along the way, I got comfortable letting VST carry things I didn’t even notice.
I depended on him to see the oncoming traffic and the road signs. I saw the world from the passenger seat of an RV, watching the scenery roll past while he watched the road. I could enjoy the view because he was watching for roadblocks ahead.
I didn’t see all the bills or understand the full cost of being us. I left details to him, comfortable in the belief that he would take care of them. He had for so long.
I refused to see the warning signs surrounding us. I saw the view of life I chose to see, rather than the reality of the life we were living. Some things were easier to leave unexamined. Easier to put off until another day.
I didn’t notice time passing until it snatched him away.
Before I became a widow, I chose to hear the words that made me feel loved. I paid less attention to the silence of those who had moved away. My own world was full enough that I didn’t always stop to look for what was missing.
Road noise filled our lives as we traveled thousands of miles together. The steady sound became the background of our days. Willie’s Roadhouse became my playlist, although it had always been his. One familiar song after another. One mile after another. We moved down the highway, not knowing how few miles we had left.
Before I became a widow, I felt 1,000-thread-count sheets against my skin as I dreamed on down pillows. I knew the comfort of a tough, protective hand taking mine to lead the way. I felt protected without ever understanding the world I’d been protected from.
I felt a love that had aged for thirty-two years, mellowing into friendship and respect. A love so familiar I sometimes forgot to stop and fully appreciate it.
It was there when I woke up. There when I went to sleep. Woven through so much of daily life that I could no longer see where my life ended and his began.
Of course, there was the after.
Oh, the after …
My senses awakened to a world I scarcely recognized. Nothing looked, tasted, smelled, sounded, or felt the same. The familiar things were still around me, but I experienced them differently. His absence reached into every part of the day.
On Day One, I had an entire world full of demands. The bills. The decisions. The things he had handled together. The questions I wished I had asked while he was still there to answer them. I had to manage details I’d trusted him with, while wondering how I could possibly move forward without him.
Life was entirely different on April 9, 2020.
Looking back, I wish I had paid closer attention. I wish I had lingered over more meals, looked up more often, and understood that an ordinary day together was something worth appreciating while I was living it.
I loved VST deeply. For thirty-two years, we built a life together, lulling me into the belief that we’d have more time. Another conversation. Another trip. Another cold day when his hand would find mine.
Perhaps that is what I want to share this morning. If someone you love is sitting across the table, look up. If you’ve heard a story a hundred times, listen once more. If a warm hand reaches for yours, take a moment to feel it.
Those normal little things are the most precious part of life.
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