A Thousand Ways in Life and Death

Remembering Don Schweingruber on his birthday.

In a thousand different ways, I learn how you died.

When I see a perfect gift for you and know I’ll never watch you open another present.

When I am in the grocery store remembering our shopping trips and knowing we will never cook together again.

It takes time for our multiple levels of sensory to learn that someone has died. We experience sights, sounds, memories, and other sensations that suddenly shock with a new discovery of what we lost. I keep learning this about you, too.

When I struggle with my writing and realize a short time ago I would have called you. Now I can’t.

When driving by a lake you loved and thinking we will never have another chance to walk around it together.

The more interaction you have with someone, the longer it can take to understand the many different things that you’ve lost after they died. I know this is true for your loving family and friends, too.

When I sit by a fire and realize we will never again talk deeply in the glow of that light.

When I see a picture of you with my girls and feel that punch to the gut because I will not see them in your arms again.

It can feel like a thousand little cuts that hit unpredictably as we learn to live with loss. It can be the seemingly mundane things in life that hurt so unexpectedly when they are gone. The small moments are building blocks for security and love. You were good with those building blocks.

When I want to share a story with you and remember I can’t.

When I look at the calendar and think we won’t sit on the porch together this summer.

I continue to discover what it means that that you are no longer living with us.

When I see a deck of cards and realize we’ll never again smile at your gentle taunts.

When your granddaughters say something funny and my heart drops knowing we will not hear your wonderful laugh.

But, I am also gaining moments when I can clearly see you living IN us.  

When my daughter plays a practical joke, I see your gentle smile and your mischievous spark in her eyes.

When I am frustrated at something, I hear your calm and encouraging voice in my head. I still know your words. Your ways.

We can see colors of how you lived threaded through the tapestry of your family and friends. We see you in the lives you touched and the joy you shared.

When we play family games, I hear your voice in the sarcastic comments and good-natured competition. I see your love for the game. I see your appreciation for anyone willing to play in the game.

When my husband and the rest of your family watch the Pirates and Steelers, I see your love for Pittsburgh.

 In time, we find courage to look into the world and dare to see the beauty of your life still shining through even as we wipe away tears.

When my mother-in-law, your lovely wife, shows grace and courage in making chocolate chip cookies to share with others in your honor. And laughing at her stories of the things that go wrong in making the cookies as she proclaims, “That never happened to Don!”   I see you there, too. Your kindness and humor and generosity.

When I hear my daughters talk about listening to friends who struggle, I see your compassion and grace.

In a thousand different ways, I learn how you loved.

When I think of your sons and daughters-in-law all working in professions helping people, I see your model of giving and teaching.

When I hear my daughters play the piano, I see your mom’s fingers moving over the keys and know your link to their past. I feel your love for music.

I think about how you lived your faith in both the bounty of life and the valley of death. We still have your values, your words of wisdom, your firm hope.

When we sing Amazing Grace, I feel your faith lived fully.

 When I see the picture of Jesus holding a lamb, I hear your voice assuring us that God holds you. And us.

My sweet father-in-law and friend, I thank God for your life. Until we meet again, we will carry you with us in how we live and love.   We will see you in each other.

In a thousand different ways, I learn how you lived.