Holy Thursday - A Year Later

Anthony died last year on Holy Thursday. Today is Holy Thursday. I can’t believe I have lived a year without him...a year without Anthony. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about it. And it breaks my heart, over and over and over again. And I cry. Every single day, I still cry.

It doesn’t feel like a year. I thought maybe it would hurt less, but it doesn’t. My grief remains an open wound...as raw, as painful, and as fresh as the day he died. I miss him so much. I am still madly, passionately, hopelessly in love with him. Anthony may be gone, his mortal body dead, but my memories of him are as alive as this very day. I can still see him, hear him, feel him, taste him. But I can’t really do any of those things, can I? Maybe in my mind, but not in the flesh. And that drives me crazy. Sometimes, it is utter torment. He is so close. And yet, he is not here at all. 

My God, I miss him. Sometimes, I miss him so much that I scream out his name at the top of my lungs. It shocks me. All of a sudden, this sound comes out of me, like the roar of an angry, red hot, erupting volcano. And it is just as unpredictable and uncontrollable. In an instant, it happens. And it shakes me to my core. I just keep screaming and crying out his name until I exhaust myself. It is agony. 

I ask, over and over again, “Why did he have to die? Why did he have to leave me?” No answer comes. Nothing that really makes any sense to a broken heart. Yes, I have faith. But my faith is only as strong as I am. And, sometimes, I have barely enough strength to hold on. 

Sometimes, the pain and loneliness is so great that sleep is my only relief. Sometimes, I get so tired of pushing myself forward. Just putting one foot in front of the other is so damn hard. Sometimes, I don’t want to talk, or move, or even get up to go to the bathroom. When the world becomes too big, too overwhelming, too lonely, I just go to bed and sleep the pain away. Yes, when my feelings threaten to swallow me up, I have to sleep.

Occasionally, I feel ashamed that I am not stronger or more stoic when it comes to dealing with my grief...or any of my feelings, for that matter. The world would have us believe that it is noble to compartmentalize all of our emotions and keep them neatly tucked away. Well, some of us (myself included), are deep feelers who jump into the waters of life before we consider the temperature, the depth, or the possibility of drowning in heartache. If I don’t jump in, I may as well not be alive. Anthony used to tell me I am brave and strong and passionate because I am not afraid to feel deeply. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just crazy. Oh, Anthony, I don’t know why you loved me so much, but I am so thankful you did. 

So, this is it. This is Holy Thursday...the day I have been dreading. I keep looking at the clock and remembering where I was and what I was doing last year at the same time. I don’t know why I’m doing that. Maybe I’m still trying to accept the fact that Anthony is really gone. I know that must sound stupid...But, sometimes, I still can’t believe it. And I wonder how I’m supposed to live the rest of my life without him. Will the rest of my life be as lonely and as miserable as this past year has been? Will I feel empty and sad forever? Will each day continue to be a struggle...just another something on life’s endless To-Do list of mundane chores and responsibilities? 

My one bright thought in all of this? I keep telling myself that the depth of my grief and the sadness I feel is only this excruciating because the love Anthony and I had for each other was so…so…perfect.  As perfect as perfect can be in this world. It just doesn’t get any better than that. So, I guess that’s what I have to hold on to. I don’t expect I’ll stop feeling sad any time soon. When it comes to living without Anthony, I will always be sad. And so, I’ll embrace it and honor it, and even cherish it, because that sadness comes from the deepest place in my heart...The very same place where I hold my love for Anthony. 

The Heart of Grief

When grief strikes, few of us really know how we are going to respond to it, or what coping mechanisms we may have to pull out of our hats to handle it. In my adult years, I’ve lost many close relatives and friends, almost all my aunts and uncles, a baby (a 2nd trimester miscarriage), both my parents, and now, my husband. I can tell you this: As every relationship is different and unique, the grief that accompanies the loss of each relationship is just as unique. And, of course, the deeper the relationship, the deeper the grief. 

I lost Anthony eight weeks ago, and his passing has caused a depth of pain I have never known before...gut wrenching pain. A few weeks ago, I was talking to a dear friend whom I've known since my kids were babies. I was telling her how terribly sad I was feeling and she  said, "Yes, you truly know the meaning of the word agony now." As soon as she used that word...agony...I knew she, too, had been to the depths of her own pain. She has actually been able to describe, with words I would use, what I have been feeling and experiencing. (You know who you are, my friend, and I thank you for your honesty and candor in sharing your darkest moments with me.) It has been a comfort to know that someone else has reacted or responded to a devastating loss and the crippling nature of grief in a manner so similar to my own because it makes me feel normal, at a time when nothing is really normal! She really gets it. And, she has not only survived it...At this point in her life, she thrives. That gives me great hope.

I have done my best to share this journey with all of you...throughout the course of Anthony’s illness, his death, and, now, my grieving process. My hope is that someone out there will read something I write and feel a little less alone and a lot more understood. I realize that every time I post, I am taking a risk...a risk that someone will think I’m crazy or strange or any number of things a person can think about someone who puts their heart out there. But, I am feeling so much more confident in doing so because  my friend, someone I care for and trust, has taken that risk with me. It’s like Anthony has spoken through her. It feels like he has let me know, through her, that I’m perfectly fine doing it my way. 

For the past several weeks, I have gone to grief support meetings and I have listened to strangers pour their hearts out. The first meeting I attended was not what I expected, so I went to a different group, at a different time. I have heard people describe how their grief completely paralyzed them to the point of not even being able to leave their homes for up to two or three months. Some of these saints continue to go to meetings (many for years after their losses) just so they can share with people like me who are suffering the gaping wounds of fresh, raw grief. They are there to support, without judgement. They are there to give hope to the most brokenhearted...hope and courage to continue living life. God bless them! I remember singing a song at church several years ago called No Longer Strangers. The Refrain is, “No longer strangers, no longer lost and alone! No longer strangers, now we are saints! We are one in the house of God!” (David Haas) I have felt the Spirit of those words at these meetings.

Something else has happened...I have returned to work, four days a week. I didn’t think I was ready, but sometimes necessity dictates what you end up doing. I have to say, when I am with the kids, making music, hearing them sing, playing my guitar, it feels good. I actually laugh! I hear Anthony talking to me when I am there, saying things to encourage me if I start to feel sad. Amazingly, he can still make me smile when I hear him say those special things to me that only he would say. And, I feel incredibly loved by the kids and my co-workers. Everyone has been so gentle, so kind, and so supportive. I feel Anthony’s love through all of them.

I have also been doing some reading about cultural differences, traditions, and rituals regarding the grieving process. I have discovered (not just through reading, but through my own experience) that our society does little to honor the sacred nature of suffering through grief. In our corner of the world, people are expected to “get on with life” as soon as the funeral is over and the dead are buried. Hey, if you can do that, more power to you. I am not ashamed to say that I can not do it that way. And, if anyone out there is suffering a loss and grieving so deeply that sometimes it’s hard to just take your next breath, don’t you dare apologize! There is no wrong way to grieve.

Anthony taught me to honor myself and my feelings. He stood by me (and sometimes held me up) through some very difficult times. He never, ever judged me. He protected me and always respected my feelings. He knew exactly how I needed to be loved and always wanted me to be happy. Before he passed away, he told me he knew I was going to suffer greatly when he died, and he knew it was going to take a very long time for me to heal. It didn't matter how many times I told him not to worry or how hard I tried to assure him that I would be OK. He knew, when the time came, that I would suffer through a period when nothing could console me. He was right. I am suffering. (I would seriously be worried about myself if I weren't!) I cry every single day, sometimes so hard that I gasp for air and my chest and my stomach hurt. Sometimes, I scream at the top of my lungs. Other times, I sob with deep guttural moans. And, most days, I feel as though my heart is shattered into a million tiny pieces and it will never, ever get put back together again.

The truth is, when our hearts are broken and we are drenched in tears, cold and shivering, we feel naked and vulnerable...like a helpless baby. But, some people are afraid to admit that. Perhaps they think it’s a little too messy...or pathetic...or weak. But, I couldn't disagree more. You see, I believe it takes a hell of a lot more strength and courage to survive when we’re scared, naked, and cold. In order to rise up out of our grief and pain, we must honor the sacred nature of suffering by digging deep and finding our soul...that place where God resides...It is there, and only there, that healing can begin. 

He Held My Hand From Heaven

I have not been making a whole lot of phone calls these days. As a matter of fact, most of the time, I have my phones turned off. Please forgive me if you have tried calling....I’ve not listened to any messages either. Right now, everything feels very difficult to do...It’s easier for me to write than it is to talk. Don’t worry, please. And please, please don’t take it personally. I’m not trying to shut everyone out. I’m just trying to conserve what little energy I have these days so that I can heal. I keep hearing Anthony telling me to be true to myself, so that’s what I’m doing. 

That being said, I did make a phone call to a dear friend who is currently battling cancer. After catching up on how he’s been doing, we talked about how I’m doing. During the course of our conversation, he asked me if I’ve had any dreams yet.....dreams about Anthony. I told him I’ve been waiting. He said to keep asking Anthony to come through. He also said he’d be praying for me....praying that I can get some comfort.

When I hung up the phone, I cried. Really, really hard. And I got angry and frustrated and completely overwhelmed. I came over to my computer and typed this:

Anthony, I’m so angry that you’re gone! What the hell happened to all the things we were supposed to do? What happened to all the dreams we dreamed together? You dreamed my dreams with me and I dreamed yours. Why? Why did we have to be so damn happy dreaming? My dreams have all been shattered now that you’re gone because you were in every single one of them. It hurts to be a dreamer because, sometimes, people don’t understand us. So, without you, I don’t ever want to dream again.

What am I supposed to do, Anthony? Tell me, please. What am I supposed to do?

After I slammed my fingers against the keys for the short time it took me to type my outburst, I went to bed and cried and screamed until I exhausted myself. I finally fell asleep. Aaah.......Sleep...God’s natural anesthesia. Most of the time, when you’re sleeping, the real world melts away and you feel little, if any, connection to your life. 

But not this time.

I found myself in a dream that was all too real and just as painful as being awake. What the heck? This was supposed to be my escape! But, there I was, standing in my backyard looking at the roses. Anthony and I carefully choose each rose bush when we re-landscaped our backyard together. We picked the most fragrant varieties so I could make rosewater from the petals. I helped Anthony dig each hole and plant each bush, but they were his babies...and, oh, how he loved them. Now, I can’t even bear to cut them because that’s what he used to do when the blooms were full...just the way they are today.  With a grin as wide as his face, he’d carry in vases of sweet-scented blossoms and place them before me. 

With the sweetness of lingering roses, my dream then took me to the front yard...our secret garden where the scent of citrus and lavender fill the air with an intoxicating aroma that’s invigorating and tranquilizing at the same time. There I was, dreaming in real time, once again, tears streaming down my face. And angry. With my fists turned upward and pounding at the sky, I was screaming at the top of my lungs, “Anthony! How I am supposed to do this by myself?! You have to help me, Anthony. I can’t do all this alone!”

In the weird way that dreams work, the very next instant, I was inside the house where Anthony was resting in bed. He was fully clothed and laying with his back to me. He looked robust, not sick at all. I assumed he was simply napping, so I went over to him and shook him gently. No response. I shook him a little harder. Still nothing. Finally, I began to shake him violently and pound my fists into him. Once again, I screamed, “Anthony! Anthony, wake up! Tell me, how am I supposed to do all this without you?” Over and over, screaming and hitting until, all at once his hand comes straight out of Heaven and grabs my hand...

...And holds on for dear life.

My eyes flew open and I gasped loudly, then held my breath. Could this really be happening? I closed my eyes again and held on to his hand as tightly as I could, wanting either to pull him back over to this side, or to let him pull me over to his. It didn’t matter (to me) which way it went. I kept telling myself, “Just don’t let go. Just don’t let go.” With a loud exhale, I started breathing again, fast and shallow. I could feel my heart pounding within my chest and in the temples of my head...loud, hard, and fast. And I could feel his hand, struggling to hold on to mine. I felt his fingers...how many times had I traced over every inch of his hands, especially when he was sick....how many times? Oh, I know those hands. Those fingers have coursed their way through my long and tangled tresses and down the sides of my face more times than I can count. Yes, that hand struggling to hold on to mine was Anthony’s hand, for sure. And it felt so incredibly, inexplicably amazing.

Now, I don’t know what kind of strength, what kind of energy it must take for a spirit soul to break through the veil and touch one of us mortal souls, but Anthony found a way to do it. He promised me that he would...that he would find a way, if there were a way...and he did. In my darkest hour of need, in my deepest despair, he found a way to break through and touch me to let me know he is still right here. I was wide awake with my eyes closed, savoring the sensation of his hand in mine. I can’t tell you how long it lasted...minutes at least...and then, it was like we both knew the time had come to let go, and so we did. 

Anthony and I loved to dream in the real world. Oh, we’d weave the most interesting tales that would take us to far away places where one adventure was more exciting than the next. I haven’t done much daydreaming since he’s been gone, but I’ll tell you one thing....Every single time I put my head down on a pillow I pray for another dream just like the one I had when Anthony reached right out of Heaven just to hold my hand.

The Window

I’ve looked out this window a million times. It’s the very same window you used to look out when you sat in your chair reading the newspaper or watching a football game on a lazy Saturday afternoon. For some reason, I’ve always found comfort in this room, looking out this window, season after season...with you, sitting in your chair, looking out this window, too. This window...your chair...and you. 

But, today, as I sit in your chair and gaze through these familiar panes of glass, I feel like a stranger in a foreign land. The view outside this window changes little, even through the seasons, but its familiarity offers me no comfort. Instead, it serves as another bitter reminder that life goes on as usual, all around me, with no regard for my feelings. How dare it taunt me! Doesn’t the world know nothing is the same? Inside this house, life, as I knew it...as we knew it...has stopped. Sometimes, I feel as though the life inside me has stopped, too. 

Sometimes, I walk around the house, wandering from room to room, with tears flowing down my face. I walk around and around, not speaking a single word. But, while I may appear to be dazed or deep in trance, my mind is hyper-aware of everything in my surroundings. Every little thing seems to take on special meaning.  Every single thing holds a memory. Today, it is the window...the one right next to Anthony’s chair.

I’ve always been the sentimental type, freely (and passionately) attaching feelings to the moments in life that have touched my heart...And then, in that great spirit of sentimentality, I hold them close so they are readily available for recall. Each time I relive a memory, my emotions wash over me and flood all my senses. I not only feel, but I see and smell and hear bits and pieces of these events, as if living them for the first time, all over again. But, of course, the re-living is only in my head and always leaves me wanting more. I guess we can never get enough of a good thing.

Since Anthony’s passing, I surprise myself by remembering the most random things. And, sometimes, I’m even more surprised by what sparks my memory. I could catch sight of the most ordinary, mundane thing, and before I know it, I’m watching a slide show of freeze-frame vignettes...each one depicting a scene from some bygone moment I shared with Anthony in that very same spot.  That’s exactly what happened when I looked out the window...the one next to Anthony’s chair.

How many times have I seen Anthony sitting in his chair, looking out that window? How many times has he called me over to look, too? “Hey, Treesee, come ‘ere. Look at this! Hurry!” Running from the kitchen...my hands dripping water all over the floor because, in my haste, I forgot to grab a towel...I arrive at his chair to find him smiling that smile of his as he’s staring through the glass, eyes fixed upon a hummingbird dipping into the flower basket. Then, without moving or breaking his stare, Anthony says, in a prayerful whisper, “Isn’t he beautiful?” I look at the tiny fellow poking around in the flowers for a second before turning my attention to the big fellow in the chair. When I murmur, “Oh, yeah. He sure is beautiful,” I’m not referring to the bird. 

How do I make the beautiful memories stop hurting? Why does their beauty intensify my pain and make missing him so horribly unbearable? 

I’ve been racking my brain, trying with all my might to remember any incident...an argument...an indiscretion...an act of dishonesty or betrayal...anything to taint my memory of Anthony, hoping something bad might make me miss him a little less. But I can’t remember anything...because he never hurt me. Ever. He was faithful and loyal to me, without fault. He told me, many times, that he’d rather die than hurt me. (Didn't he realize that dying would hurt me more than anything?)

Yes, I know how lucky I am to have had a love so pure, so perfect. And, of course, I am thankful I have so many beautiful memories of Anthony...Yet, in the true spirit of being human, my selfishness and greed take over and all I want is more...more moments with Anthony, more memories with Anthony...more Anthony. I want to walk by the window...the one next to his chair...and see him sitting there, just like he used to. I want to be able to go over to him and throw my arms around him and feel him hold me. But that’s not going to happen. 

As each day passes without him, the reality of Anthony being gone sinks in just a little bit more. I get it...He's not coming back. So, since the love of my life is gone, and since it's so damn hard to just keep breathing without him, I'm wondering...Is it too much to ask that one day I’ll be able to look out that window again without crying?

Splinters

Sometimes a small thing packs the mightiest punch. Like a splinter, embedded just beneath the surface of your skin. Sometimes, you can’t even see it unless you look really closely. But you know something is there because it hurts like a son of a gun. There are small things all around me, in every single room, just waiting to be found...just waiting to find me. And when I come across one, it gets under my skin, and I immediately feel the pain of its presence. Because its presence makes Anthony’s absence so real. 

Like his razor...How many times did I watch Anthony shave that beautiful, handsome face of his? He’d look at me, through the mirror and wink, knowing I was staring at him the way a love-struck school girl stares at that dreamy looking boy sitting in the seat next to her. I’d sneak his razor into the shower, so I could use it to shave my legs, and then I’d put it back before he knew it was missing. But, somehow, he’d always know. When he’d ask me if I was using his razor again, I’d smile that smile he couldn’t resist, and he’d just shake his head and laugh at me. Did he know I used it just because it was his?...Just because it was the razor he held...the razor that shaved that beautiful face of his? Now I can use it whenever I want...but it’s not the same because he isn’t here to use it, too.

He’s not here to use his fancy ultrasonic toothbrush, either. He loved that thing. How many times did I see it, charging in its cradle on the countertop, next to his sink? The last few times I’ve glanced at it, an immediate flashback of Anthony standing there, brushing his teeth, has filled my mind. So, I changed the head and replaced it with a new brush and tried it. Huh....Now I know why he liked it so much. So, do I plug it in on my side, next to my sink, or leave it where it’s always been...on his side, next to his soap dish?

His soap dish...another splinter. How many nights will I have to get ready for bed without Anthony? How many times will I stand at my sink and look over at his and see...nothing? I won’t see him take his special bar of soap...lavender or almond or mint...and lather up his hands and wash his face before coming to bed. I won’t see him do that ever again. Should I leave his soap dish next to his sink? Do I leave the half-used bar of soap in it? If I stand over his sink and wash my hands and face there...with the soap from his soap dish...do I dare look in the mirror and see reality...the reflection of myself where his should be?

Do I dare open his medicine cabinet? Do I risk my heart being broken yet again and again with every item I see...each bottle of his cologne...a styptic  pencil...his deodorant...some Benadryl? No, I don’t have to open it. I have a pretty good idea of what’s in there and where each item sits on the shelf. And each one still bears his touch...It’s like each one holds a piece of him in some strange way. I’m not ready to go digging around in there and pulling anything from its spot.

Anthony died one month ago, today. I can’t say I’m OK, because I’m not. I’m sad all the time. I either sleep too much, or not at all. Sometimes, I eat and  sometimes, I don’t. Much of the time, I don’t answer the phone because I can’t talk without crying. As if things aren’t bad enough, every time one of these splinters pries its way under my skin, the pain of my grief paralyzes me.  So, what should I do with all of them...all of these splinters? Should I leave them right where they are and feel the pain of their presence each time I move, each time I breathe? If I take them out, one by one, will their absence leave a gaping hole in my heart? Will plucking them out discard yet one more piece of Anthony from my life and send him further and further away? 

I’m thinking that maybe I need to leave things alone right now. As strange as it may sound, it feels safer to just leave the splinters where they are...at least, for today. Even though it hurts to move and breathe and live with them embedded in me, just the thought of pulling them out seems more painful than I can bear right now. Maybe later, when I’m ready, I’ll take a deep breath and pluck one out. Then, I’ll wait until the emptiness heals up and the soreness goes away before thinking about going after the next one.  

I don’t think I’m going to stop hurting any time soon, splinters or no splinters. I know it’s only been one month, so I shouldn’t be expecting a whole lot anyway. But, Anthony’s life was so enmeshed with mine, and mine with this, that I have a feeling my heart will be pierced, again and again, by lots of splinters that show up in lots of different places. I also have a feeling I’m going to be finding splinters for a long, long time. 

Your Birthday in Heaven

Tuesday, May 1, was Anthony’s birthday. He would have been 63 years old. I tried to keep myself as busy as possible, but it was difficult, and I shed my fair share of tears throughout the day. 

Anthony’s sister planned a beautiful family dinner to honor him. I brought a bottle of one of Anthony’s favorite wines to share, and I made a rich chocolate cake for dessert...also one of Ant’s favorites. We celebrated Anthony...we even sang Happy Birthday and lit candles on the cake. We spent a wonderful evening together, but I missed Anthony terribly. I don’t think I was alone in missing him...I’m pretty sure everyone did.

After dinner, the kids and I came home, and I really felt the sting of Anthony’s absence when we walked into the house. Earlier in the day, I had started writing the poem, Your Birthday in Heaven (below), so I tried to fill the void by finishing it. I couldn’t. I tried writing anything...I just couldn’t. The strange thing was that I had so much on my mind...so many thoughts and feelings...but I couldn’t organize them enough to form a single sentence. So, I cried. I cried until I was too tired to cry anymore. Then, I cuddled up next to my daughter, Cecilia (who was sweet enough to come up from San Diego to be with me...especially for Anthony’s birthday), and I thought about all the different things we’ve done, in the past, to celebrate this very special day. For the first time since Anthony has passed away, I actually fell asleep smiling. 

I’ve always tried to come up with something extra special for Anthony’s birthday...a gift that let him know I put lots of thought into it because I thought so much about him! So, here is my birthday gift (a poem) for my husband on his 63^rd birthday...

Your Birthday in Heaven

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven? 

Do you wake up to the sound 

of celestial angels all around...

singing and playing on harps of gold?

 When you live in Eternity, do you ever grow old, 

or does time never cease to unfold 

in streams of infinite ribbons...

impossible to hold?

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven?

Do you dance throughout the day

    with wild abandon, child-like play...

running and skipping on clouds of white?

When you live in Eternity, is there darkness or night,

or is time filled only with light

spoken into existence...

that which was born in God’s sight?

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven?

Does love swell inside your heart

and then explode to touch each part

of you with His sanctifying Grace?

When you live in Eternity, do you see God’s face

everywhere...filling every space

with His omnipotent presence...

enveloping you in His embrace?

Tell me...

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven?

A Name Change

I’m sure, by now, you have noticed that I changed the name of my Blog. I’d actually been thinking about it for quite some time, but after Anthony passed away, and more people shared their stories with me, I knew it was the right thing to do...

I was laying in bed thinking about this Blog and some of the things that have transpired since I started it. When I first began writing, I wondered if anyone would even read it. In spite of my fears and insecurities, I wrote anyway...mostly because I felt pushed to do it. The idea kept coming up during my prayer time and continued to nag at me until I finally set up the Blog site and published my first entry. 

Each time I started writing a new piece, I allowed my thoughts and feelings to determine the direction it took. I also tried to focus upon staying hopeful, in spite of the challenges and obstacles before us. Soon, readers began to respond and share their hearts with me...mostly through private emails. I discovered how Anthony’s faith and courage, and our journey through his illness together, touched their lives through what I wrote. 

Among some of the feedback I’ve received are stories from people who have been blessed with the rekindling, strengthening, and/or healing of relationships. Many others have experienced personal conversions and a deepening of their faith. I continue to receive correspondence from readers who, in some way, have been inspired...even changed...by my telling of Anthony’s story. These are no small gifts...some people have even called them miracles. Given that, I decided to change the name of this Blog from  A Miracle For Anthony to one that reflects the many good things that have happened (and will continue to happen) in the lives of others because of Anthony’s journey. I am confident that my kind and loving husband will keep praying for us, and I believe, with all my heart, that we will continue to see the fruits of his faithfulness in the miracles God works in our lives. Therefore, I renamed the Blog Anthony’s Miracles.

It has been just three weeks since Anthony passed away. I am learning that my grief is as unpredictable and uncontrollable as a storm out on the open seas. Within minutes, and without warning, I can be overcome by violent waves of sorrow and despair that crash down upon me, relentlessly. Most times, all I can do is hold on and ride it out. And then, just as suddenly as it came on, and without any explanation, the stormy seas will turn calm, and I am given a brief respite. When I do catch a break in the storm, I try to welcome the calm with an open heart and drink in as many sweet thoughts of Anthony as I can before the next wave hits and knocks the wind right out of me.

So, while I have a minute of peace, I’m going to remind myself to live as Anthony lived...hopeful, faithful, loving, and joyful. And full of life. Just days before he passed, Anthony gathered all our children around his bed and gave them counsel...a father’s wisdom. He told them to never give up, to never lose hope, and to always fight the good fight. He said God would help them get through anything and urged them to pray and stay faithful. He shared his great love for family and expressed how happy he was to have all of his children there with him. He told them to always love and forgive each other. And he told each and every one of them how very proud he was of them...proud of who they were and what they were doing with their lives. And he made sure they understood how much he loved them and how happy he was to be their father. Even on his deathbed, he lived as fully as he was able, and he never stopped giving.

I learned so much from my husband...He taught me about life and how to live by the example he set...and by the way he loved me. Before he died, Anthony asked me to make a promise to him...He wanted me to keep this Blog going...to keep writing. I believe, now, that Anthony not only wanted me to share our story, he wanted me to continue to live life to its fullest...the way he did. He knew that writing would provide a way for me to let people in...to keep me connected. It’s his way of taking care of me and making sure I take care of myself. He was so wise.

So, as I continue to let my experiences weave the fabric of the stories I tell, I will also call upon Anthony’s wisdom for inspiration. If I can give back a piece of what he gave to me, my life will be worthwhile. If I can share an experience or an insight that will help someone else on their journey, then maybe I can find a purpose for the pain that Anthony suffered and the heartache I’ve carried, everyday, since he’s been gone. If I can reach out my hand to another in need, even in my own brokenness, then perhaps I can embrace my own healing. And, if I can keep the eyes of my heart open, maybe I will see the world as Anthony did...full of wonder, mystery, and miracles...just waiting to happen.