A Man Under Authority

I could be tempted to interrogate him during our perpetual, one-sided conversation with, “How could you? What were you thinking?” but I’m not.

I am a little unnerved by the notion that even for a moment I could stoop so low as to blame him for an event so irrevocable. During his life, I had tried to be a better wife than that—to be the woman whose tempered tones would never beg or badger.

Therefore, I am relieved that only once during the past six weeks have these questions popped into my befuddled head in a serious way—and then, only for a moment. It was neither pride nor self-control that stopped the thought mid-stream. Rather it was my absolute certainty that, left to his own devices, he would never have invented a plan that causes so much pain.

He was too overjoyed with this life to depart abruptly for another. His eyes were on the future and his hand on the throttle—worlds left to conquer and trips still to take. He found deep satisfaction in work and with friends. Above all else, the constant thread of his busy agenda was how to spend more time with the family he loved.

I am equally confident that although this plan did not originate with George, he immediately said “Yes” when he was called. Not because he seeking to go, but because in every sphere of life— military, business, church and home—and in his relationship with God, George knew and followed his chain of command.

I know exactly what he said six week ago today, “I too am a man under authority.” (Matt. 8:9)

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is everywhere in his at-home office.

I have entered the mausoleum of his work life to retrieve work he accomplished, but had yet to deliver. I feel no dread or sorrow here—just an eager determination to serve his clients well. A job well done and timely finished was the mandate by which he lived and passed along to me. Beyond the ethics of his working world, there is the truth his clients became his friends.

Hand-written field notes wait to the left of his computer, ready for typing tin the days ahead. His pen is where his right hand would have left it. His reading glasses are casually placed upon reports he planned to read tomorrow.

Overstuffed folders of work in progress are in their queue, lined up and waiting their appropriate time. Each one is full of work he’d done and things that were left to do. A towering sleeve of business cards stands guard, an upright stanchion of future contacts and potentials for tomorrow.

Watching over all is his calendar. It is the legacy of his past and the planning for his future. Through October the pages show us how he spent his days, breaking down the tasks by hours. The next two months were taking shape. Appointments were not just penciled in, but written down in ink in his planning for tomorrow.

His tomorrow never came.  Now there is only yesterday and forever.

Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

A Brief Encounter

I had a brief encounter with “normal” today. It crept down two long aisles and snuck up on me from behind the art supplies. I startled momentarily because I could not immediately identify my interloper. Gradual recognition dawned, and I realized I was face to face with the person who used to be me.

I was a little surprised that between the front door and the back of the store, I had not noticed her stealthy advance. I cannot blame her solely. The soft sounds of Christmas music, the pleasant sight of beckoning merchandise and countless shoppers who seemed not to notice the half of a woman I have become all abetted her.

My first impulse was to send her away. What business did I have keeping company with someone so carefree and happy? I was perplexed by this turn of events, but she was a familiar companion, and I found it refreshing to let her stay, if only for a while.

Together we shopped, walking among the other women as if life were normal, as if I was not half of the person I used to be. A stranger asked my advice as if I were just any grandmotherly type. My suggestions enhanced her project, and she was grateful. In return, and without knowing it, she gifted me with a few moments of being just any woman.

For a couple of hours, with normal at my side, I was caught up in the spirit of giving. I had no burden other than checking off the boxes on my errand list. I think I was happier than other more harried shoppers, who found the crowded stores and seasonal traffic their greatest woe. I finished my tasks and headed home. Normal slipped away as the brightness of the day was fading, but not before I had the chance to call out softly, “Thanks for a pleasant afternoon.”

I have taken over twenty-four hours to process Friday’s experience. I had not realized the great extent to which “normal” went away until suddenly it reappeared—although only for two hours. Loss multiplies loss, and in the equation, I have lost not only my husband but also any notion of who I am. I am an oozing, gaping wound; the crippled half of what was once a vibrant whole. Loss of identity is my widow’s wear.