Traditions

I’ve recently been asked, more than once, what I will do to memorialize the second anniversary of Rick’s death. Yes, I am exactly like one of those sappy people who sentimentalize everything and make a big deal of such traditions. Admittedly, some very good reasons to create such traditions exist.

Nothing. That’s the special tradition I’ll participate in for the second anniversary. I have 94 written pages that attest to the fact that I grieved the first year well. I leaned in hard. I memorialized every tradition, every moment, and every thought throughout that whole year. Here’s a small taste of what I did to remember the first year, and what could become a tradition but won’t:

Hiking the Saugatuck Dunes State Park was the perfect choice for this day – 53 degrees, sunny, and breezy but not windy. The parking lot was full, but only a few people could be seen. I dressed in layers and stuffed my backpack with all the necessities (water and a wind jacket). I thought of all the things Rick would have brought for such a trip: tissues, snacks, first aid, that red plastic thing he has for sitting where the ground is wet, a bear whistle, extra clothes, and his pocket knife. I may be exaggerating a bit but not by much. You would have thought we’d be gone for days when he packed for short hikes. I loved that about him. I never had to worry because he had all that was needed; I was safe in his care.

The dunes were beautiful on this mid-November day. Leaves littered the trail, the trees were naked, and the sand was rolling under the call of the wind. Once I reached the Lake Michigan shoreline, I checked out several spots to find one suitable for listening to the audio recording of the memorial service. I chose a spot just beyond the dune grass that dropped off about three feet to the beach area. The waves were small, the sun was bright, and the breeze was gentle. I plunked myself down in the sand, having chosen clothing that resists the wind and cold. Perhaps all these preparations were a means of delaying the inevitable pain of listening to the service for the first time on this first anniversary.

Pastor Lonnie, in his most solemn voice, read all of Psalm 23. We sang Better is One Day and I’ll Stand – two songs that reminded me of Rick in the sound booth at church with his arms wide open in worship. Later my uncle would comment about how special our memorial service worshipping with lifted hands was…even on such an occasion. While on that beach with the occasional passersby, I stood with my arms open wide, twirled around in that fresh clean air, sang out the words to that song in a voice captured by the wind, and I felt the presence of my Savior wash over me once again.

Having done what I had set out to do, I packed up my gear and returned to the car. I noticed all the families around me and wondered if they had any idea why I came. Of course they wouldn’t, but that struck me as odd. Didn’t they feel the earth tremble on that day like I did?

I invested so much healthy energy into grieving every moment of our lives together that I can say without sharp stabs of pain that I have released any near future urge to traditionalize the anniversary of Rick’s death. This is not to say that I won’t remember, that I won’t be sad, and that I won’t wish things might have been different.