As I begin this blog, I do so with a bit of sadness because I have come to the end of the “Love is” series, which has been therapeutic. If you are interested in reading some of the blogs I wrote during my wife’s seven-month long battle for survival you can go to the Elder Source Blog page.

I found the little book on her beside table while she was at National Health Care for several weeks of rehab. Someone from my wife’s school must have stopped by and left it as an encouragement. I had the room to myself for a few minutes so I opened the little journal and began to read the handwritten notes on the once empty pages.

Five weeks ago today I received a 6:52AM call from my wife’s neurosurgeon telling me my sweetheart was gone. Her seven-month long battle for survival was over, but my world crashed and is still smoldering. Two words came to mind that morning, but I have waited until now to put “Love Is” into the blogosphere.

My wife loved that I loved her. She loved our simple date nights, our romantic get-a-ways, and the occasional bouquets of flowers at the end of a long day at school or for no reason at all. Every day ended with us sitting on the sofa next to each other holding hands, and once in bed we would fall asleep snuggling.

God, You and I have talked a lot during the last seven months of my bride’s life. Many times I thought she wasn’t going to survive. Many times it hurt so much to see her suffering that I prayed over and over again, asking you to heal her. As if you needed my permission, I even left the definition of healing up to you, knowing that you might choose to ultimately heal her and take her to be with you. Ten days ago you did just that.

I saw her in the group in front of me. She wore a white skirt and a checkered lavender colored top. I liked how she walked, talked, and interacted with the three other girls in her group. We were on a church outing to the local Putt Putt miniature golf course.

Life can be like a game of checkers. I haven’t played checkers in many, many years, but I remember well a few I played decades ago. My maternal grandfather had a farm in western Kentucky. Although he never learned to read or write, he had one of the best business minds I have ever known. I often find myself reflecting on the lessons learned from his example.

Before my wife’s frontal lobe aneurysm and subsequent surgeries (you can see previous blogs for details) I was one who followed rules and had my day planned, my week, next week... But life has a way of changing one’s thinking.

I am reminded of the well known line Clint Eastwood spoke in the Dirty Harry movies, “Are you feeling lucky today, punk?” Lucky is not in my normal vocabulary. Honestly, I can’t remember how long it has been since I have even used the word. I accept that some people appear to be lucky, but I have never considered myself to be a member of that elite club.

Life has never been easy, but it seems as if the world is unraveling at a hectic pace. Anger and hostility are front and center of the 24-hour news cycle and battle lines are drawn. Society is not a pretty place right now, and I see a shortage of integrity as one of the contributors.

An important introductory note: I met Sam today while visiting my wife in rehab. Tomorrow marks the end of the 5th month since my wife’s brain trauma began. A stubborn aneurysm that burst twice was only the beginning. You can scan some earlier blogs for more details. She is now in a local care facility for rehab. Today is Saturday 2/24/17.

None of us has a guarantee of tomorrow. There is not a day that goes by without reminders that our life or the life of one we know and love could be gone in the blink of an eye. For nearly five months I have lived knowing that today could be my last with my wife.

In my last blog I voiced concern over our increasingly divided nation. Our news outlets seem to enjoy fanning the flames that destroy hope. When hope is lost, a nation, a society, a government, a people, a marriage, a family… will perish! Unfortunately, heartwarming stories don’t drive ratings like sensational stories do.

My childhood hometown in Illinois still has an annual sweet corn festival. One part of the festivities I remember well was the demolition derby. Locals would do their best to be the last car moving in the crash-fest. Metaphorically speaking life can be a bit like a demolition derby. 

A few years ago I was helping an every Friday evening outreach to homeless men. Using the parking lot of a church, we served warm food and genuine fellowship. I remember one particular evening was bitterly cold and so was I. My thin jacket wasn’t enough for the below freezing temperature.

I grew up in a small mid-western community. Most of the people I knew were either employed in local factories or in farming. My dad was a schoolteacher and my mother stayed home working hard for her husband and her four children. As a young child I was always the first one on up on Christmas day. I remember one year, my dad in an effort to get a little more sleep required that we be dressed before we opened gifts. No problem, I just put my pajamas on over my clothes.