Two words to describe a day of memory and the promise of hope

Yesterday, six friends and I visited Evelyn’s gravesite on the one-year anniversary of her death.

I was pleased they were willing to go with me. I wanted to commemorate the day, but I wasn’t sure how. And I didn’t want to do it alone. Our plan was simple. And perfect.

Perfect because these six have been among our closest friends.

And perfect because none of them had yet seen the grave. Our burial of the ashes was just a family affair last November, and the grave marker wasn’t installed until about a month ago. Now it’s a place ready for visitors.

I asked one from each couple to offer a brief prayer as we pondered the brass and granite marker, its center a pull-up vase filled with silk fall flowers wavering in the breeze.

“We’re thankful to remember her beautiful spirit.” Verna said. “All that we love deeply about her has become a part of us.”

Shirley added, “I thank you, God, for her devotion to you with her full life, living it out through her career, her family, her service to the church and other people—quietly and without fanfare.”

“I thank you for how talented she was in so many areas,” Paul prayed, “and the way she so easily shared those talents. Help us to follow her example.”

Their words were simple. And perfect.

Soon we moved from those few minutes at the graveside to a happy lunch afterwards at a restaurant nearby before adjourning to Shirley and Terry’s home for pumpkin pie, Evelyn’s recent dessert choice for her October 5 birthdays. Remembering her birth, her death, and her beautiful life—all in one day: Simple. Perfect.

My friends were gracious and good to share memories of Evelyn. As always, I was glad to hear their stories and share a couple of my own. I’ll never stop remembering how Evelyn touched and helped and challenged me. But this first anniversary feels to me like a signpost pointing to a new path forward.

Conventional wisdom says the first year after a death is a fraught time as each new calendar page reminds us of what we always did before.

• This is what she always loved about Christmas.
• This is what she always fixed for Easter dinner.
• This is where we always walked in the summer.
• This is what she always wanted in the autumn.

(She would have been happy with the mums I’ve planted in containers on my patio. And the pumpkin pie.)

But as every Alzheimer’s caregiver coping with the death of their spouse will tell you, our loss is a little different. The fact is I hadn’t enjoyed most of “always” for several years, long before decline led to Evelyn’s last breath.

And with each uncomfortable new duty, abandoned tradition, and long, lonely weekend, I grieved. A search for grief in these blog posts will show how I experienced it again and again.

Some have seen that and said, “Well, you did all your grieving before she passed.” Much, but not all.

Despite dozens of losses I’ve noted in the past, this, too, has been a year punctuated by hollow moments with memories of happy moments unforgettable but achingly unrepeatable. I’ve entered new territory, and every week I work to find my way.

But I’m not unhappy where I’ve landed. And as one friend observed, “You won’t forget Evelyn’s death; you’re simply ready to stop discussing it.”

Simply ready, yes. That’s the perfect way to put it.

While I don’t want to keep talking about my loss, neither do I want others to ignore it.

The challenge is to remember but not obsess.
The task is to get comfortable carrying grief as I grow stronger bearing the weight of it.

I’ll work on balance. But I won’t fret.

Evelyn’s birthday, October 5, 2023. She moved to residential care six months later.

Instead, I’ll keep thanking God for the life Evelyn and I shared, as well as his ongoing provision when that life dwindled and disappeared. I’ll thank him for the fact that my every need is met. I’ll ask him for wisdom to wisely steward all he’s laid in my lap.

Deciding each day to take another step toward productivity and hope is not a complicated goal. Maybe not always easy, but simple.

And reveling in all the possibilities before me makes for a good life, indeed. Many days, in fact, I’d call it perfect.