This is the eve of Gwen's birthday. Numbers don't mean as much to me as they once might have. It would have been nice to throw a big party for Gwen on her 69th birthday tomorrow. It would have been nice to celebrate 50 years of marriage. I no longer resent not having reached those milestones on our journey of love--they are just numbers. What numbers don't measure are the uncountable moments shared by two people who accepted the God-given grace of a lasting love.
As I write this I reflect that it's hard not to seem pretentious. There are millions of people who have received the same grace and experience the same love. Sadly, there are also millions who have not known the joy, and the suffering, that true love has to offer. In my case, it has only been since Gwen's death that I have come to fully appreciate what Gwen and I often spoke about--we have been given the miracle of love.
Among the millions of moments that Gwen and I shared, there are two that remain prominent in my mind and heart. The first was when Barney, Gwen's dad, place her hand in mine at the altar on our wedding day with a gentleness that I had seldom seen before. Then, as Gwen and I looked into each other's eyes, we saw no fear, no doubt, no questioning--we saw confidence, certainty and whatever questions we may have had being answered. Most of all, we saw love. To me, this is perhaps the real miracle; having a moment, that was ours and ours alone, to cherish forever.
The second moment, seemingly diametrically opposed, was a year ago on Gwen's birthday. Our whole family was home, and our children lovingly carried Gwen in her wheelchair up the stairs to the front door and down the steps to the car. We then drove to the theater and saw the movie Secretariat. There are many sweet moments to remember about that day, but the one I most remember is when I sat next to Gwen in the theater and looked down into her eyes. The strength, conviction, hope--and the love--were there as surely as they had been on our wedding day. Looking back on that now, I also recall a sense of vulnerability about the love of my life that I hadn't seen before then. I reached out and held her hand, and felt once again the nearness and intensity of the miracle of our love that we shared on that June morning long ago.
Tomorrow at sunrise, Dear, I'm sending a birthday balloon your way. The rosebush and hyacinth bulbs that I'll plant later will honor the beauty of the love we share and the hope for what awaits. Tomorrow we'll celebrate not only your birthday, but also your life.
As I write this I reflect that it's hard not to seem pretentious. There are millions of people who have received the same grace and experience the same love. Sadly, there are also millions who have not known the joy, and the suffering, that true love has to offer. In my case, it has only been since Gwen's death that I have come to fully appreciate what Gwen and I often spoke about--we have been given the miracle of love.
Among the millions of moments that Gwen and I shared, there are two that remain prominent in my mind and heart. The first was when Barney, Gwen's dad, place her hand in mine at the altar on our wedding day with a gentleness that I had seldom seen before. Then, as Gwen and I looked into each other's eyes, we saw no fear, no doubt, no questioning--we saw confidence, certainty and whatever questions we may have had being answered. Most of all, we saw love. To me, this is perhaps the real miracle; having a moment, that was ours and ours alone, to cherish forever.
The second moment, seemingly diametrically opposed, was a year ago on Gwen's birthday. Our whole family was home, and our children lovingly carried Gwen in her wheelchair up the stairs to the front door and down the steps to the car. We then drove to the theater and saw the movie Secretariat. There are many sweet moments to remember about that day, but the one I most remember is when I sat next to Gwen in the theater and looked down into her eyes. The strength, conviction, hope--and the love--were there as surely as they had been on our wedding day. Looking back on that now, I also recall a sense of vulnerability about the love of my life that I hadn't seen before then. I reached out and held her hand, and felt once again the nearness and intensity of the miracle of our love that we shared on that June morning long ago.
Tomorrow at sunrise, Dear, I'm sending a birthday balloon your way. The rosebush and hyacinth bulbs that I'll plant later will honor the beauty of the love we share and the hope for what awaits. Tomorrow we'll celebrate not only your birthday, but also your life.
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