You know the ones I’m talking about. At least, I hope you do.
The nights that feel overwhelming, the busy weeks that leaving us scrambling.
The nights the couch calls our name so loudly we can almost hear it. Oh wait, that just the four-year-old, scream-singing our name from his bed, two hours after bedtime.
The nights we don’t feel like cooking, so we take the four-year-old out to dinner. Only to remember that four-year-olds don’t do well in restaurants that don’t have play-places or where there’s other people who are trying to eat in peace.
This blog was born out of big things. Specifically, one big giant thing that enveloped lots of smaller big things.
It’s coming up on three years since I first choked on the word “widow;” since I saw with my own eyes how grief overshadows everything.
C. S. Lewis wrote in the wake of his wife’s death, “Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”
The only existing audio clip I have of Chris is from when he persuaded one of his best friends to try “Dave’s Gourmet” ghost pepper hot sauce. You can’t see him in the video, but you can hear his laughter and commentary in the background as his friend’s mouth burns – “It’s not unbearable… it’s just… it’s spicy,” says Chris.
And it makes my heart swell. To hear my husband’s voice again… There are no words.
It would have been a forgotten moment in a series of many, equally hilarious scenarios. It would have been altogether passed by, lost in the haste and spinning of our lives.
Except that death reminds us that life is composed of the small moments.