Steve used to LOVE his Saturdays. It was start of the weekend for both of us which meant that an adventure of some sort was on the horizon. We might go to a new winery, try out a microbrewery or distillery (yup…we liked our spirits), look for a new restaurant, go to a movie, take a short hike at Lost Maples or just saunter down the sidewalks of Fredericksburg.
Saturday was our day for fun. They were carefree and filled with companionship and excitement.
Suddenly Saturdays were just dreadfully sad.
You see, he died on a Saturday at 6:16 a.m.
Most people, I have been told, mark an event in terms of months. Leave it to me to take it to an all new level of obsession. Since April 7th, Saturdays became the day for keeping track. A day for marking that one depressingly specific event.
Every Saturday was one more week that he was not here.
Each Saturday morning, I rolled over to look at the time on my iPhone and thought, “Good morning, Honey. You’ve been gone two weeks, two hours and thirteen minutes.” “Good morning, Sweetie. You’ve been gone ten weeks, one hour and four minutes.”
Yes, I even kept track of the hours and minutes. Like I said…I took it to an all new level of nuttiness.
Today I realized that, for the first time since April 7th, I did not automatically know how many weeks it has been since our lives were irrevocably altered.
Today, I caught myself referring to his death in terms of months…not Saturdays. Not hours or minutes.
Today is September 7th and we have survived five months without the gentle giant of a man we called husband, best friend, Dad and Pop-Pop. It has not been easy, in fact, many of our days have been heart-wrenchingly difficult but we are adapting. We have had good days. We are learning to live without his comforting presence because we have faith that one day we WILL see him again. Saturdays are, once again, just the beginning of another weekend.
I call that progress.
Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart all ye that hope in the Lord. Psalms 31:24