Farewell to Year Three

Dear Ricky,

I’ve been thinking about this day for a while now. Three years. Three is such a very small number, but it sometimes seems so very big. I want to do something special to remember you on this day, something intentional and purposeful. Yet none of my ideas seem quite right. I feel that if I don’t do something, if the day passes without some meaningful event – if I do little more than get out of bed, eat breakfast, and get to work – then I will have failed to honor you for our lives together. It’s not out of a sense of compulsion that I write, but instead out of a sense of needing to be near you, to be comforted by you, to be understood. This letter seems to be the best way to be close.

I’ve started this letter again and again and wonder that almost all of what I have written each time mirrors what I wrote to you last year – lack of being comforted, feeling that no one understands, carrying a hidden burden. Is that my lot in life? To never make progress, to never move forward? That doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like me. It doesn’t sound like what God would plan. Maybe I need to evaluate my station based on a continuum now.

Although today is a day of reflection, and I give myself permission to feel the emotions that go along with such a day, I have to tell you that my life is so very good, Ricky. I think you would be proud of me. I feel like a whole different person, though someone I hardly recognize. I know and love God more deeply than ever and I love other people in a way that I never knew I could. I’m still strong, determined, and independent too. I’m not sure I like growing and changing sometimes. It means I’m moving away from you and toward something else. Even though I know it’s inevitable, and even necessary, I take each step with this keen awareness of what it means about your place in my life.

I think you’d like this little ministry God planted. I think you’d find so many of the same warm blessings I have. I think you’d be surprised like I am. You realize that none of it would have happened without you…um…without your death. I know that you didn’t have to die to make it happen, like Jesus had to die to give us life, but I also know that my life would look very different otherwise. Thank you for this unexpected gift. I thank God for keeping his promise to “make all things work for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).

And so I continue to step forward into this crazy new life carrying with me little more than a dull heartache. I move ahead with no fear, no regrets, no do-overs. Still peace, still grace, still hope. Mostly sweetness. And so, farewell once more my sweet Ricky. Until we meet again.

Love,
Me

“To him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy—to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen” (Jude 24-25, NIV).

Farewell

Dear Ricky,

My thoughts fight for expression…expression that looks like nothing more than a jumble of words on a page.  I’ve started and restarted this letter to you eight times, who knows if this will be the last.  I’ve never written to you before.  What should I say?  What will be my last words?  What would have been my last words?

Do I tell you all the things I miss so much about you?  That list would go on forever.  Do I tell you all the new things God has brought me to?  That story would seem unreal.  As my best friend, I want to tell you everything.  I want you to know me again.  Would you still love me? 

How do I describe the impossibility of comfort?  An emptied box of tissues litters the ground at my feet.  The safest place in the world is in your embrace.  I’ll have to wait.  Be strong.  Smile.  Be thankful.  But not comforted.  It’s like being thirsty and never getting a drink.  How do I marry this new and beautiful life God has made for me with this unfillable longing for comfort?  Yes I find comfort in Jesus every day.  It should be better and in many ways it is…but it’s not the same.  My uncle calls with his sweet spirit and soft voice and I fear that I’ll melt like a pile of snow melting onto the carpet…he’s an echo of you.  But even for him I put on the brave face as best I can.  It’s only you with whom I can completely surrender to this sadness.  Hold on.

My burdens are many – unknown to most, understood by few – and yet I seem to reach the end of each day with a sense of joy and peace.  Evidence of grace.  My life seems to be nothing but evidence of grace.  I never could have, nor would have, put these pieces together in such a way as this.  I hardly recognize myself, my life.  I love that the testimony of God’s presence is so boldly evident, such a contrast to the person I was/am.  So unmistakable.  The impossibility of so much hope could only come from Him.  I am constantly surprised by hope.  And yet you live with Hope every day.  What is He like?  Were you surprised too?

Two years have passed since last we were together.  I’ll replay those days anew for many years to come.  But I must look toward the future too.  And so farewell, my sweet Ricky.  Until we meet again.

Love,

Me

“To him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy—to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen” (Jude 24-25, NIV).