For a long time after Rick died I could vividly remember how his arms, his hands, his chest felt in that warm, all-enveloping, welcome-home hug. I could clearly hear his excited voice, so happy to see me…every day. I could remember how he smelled after he shaved that dimpled baby face. I could remember how that smooth face felt when he paused just so that I would wrap his soft cheeks in my hands and kiss him. I could hear echoes of his heavy breathing when he came in the door a long run. I could remember him walking up the stairs with tired legs headed toward the refrigerator. I could sense his presence in those routines, those wonderful monotonies of life. The memories were so vivid, so recent, that I could almost sense him.
Today I realized that I can only remember that I had these sensations…if I try hard. They’ve become echoes, whispers.
I’m not sure I like this change. Somehow it might mean that I loved him less. Somehow it might mean I don’t want him back. Yet, I know both accusations are lies from the enemy. Perhaps the fading of my memory is one way God softly closes one door while he opens others. Perhaps this gradual fading of one thing will bring a gradual lightening of another. This new realization is like another loss, but it brings expectancy too.
My God will act on my behalf if I wait for him (Isaiah 64:4).
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