The clock is sure. And it says we’ve only got four hours to celebrate our thirty-second anniversary. We nearly make it out of town. But just as we’ve put the daily grind in our rear-view mirror, Garth realizes he doesn’t have sunscreen. So we circle back toward the drugstore.

We’re business owners, accustomed to detours and setbacks. This is how we roll.

May as well shop.

So I grab allergy meds. He hoists kitty litter. I choose sunscreen. He hauls toilet paper. We crisscross the drug store, still giddy with our plans. And walk right into an obstacle.

My free-flowing joy shrieks to a halt like brakes on a semi. Squeeeeeee.

Because standing between us and our happy destiny is our favorite cashier, the one with the sing-song voice who stamps each receipt with a smiley face and calls everyone “Love.” The one who just lost the love of her life.

I’d read about it in our small-town paper. Obituary section. Fifty-seven years old. Sudden, unexpected passing.

“I’m so sorry about your husband,” I say, forcing myself to look her in the eye no matter what I may see there.

She doesn’t hide much. Anger tints her words coffin-black. “We thought for sure we’d have thirty more years together.” She exhales. “Need a bag today, love?”

Garth and I, our heads hang now, our shoulders slump. “It’s too much,” I say. Too much. Too soon. Too surreal.

I choose not to mention we’re out celebrating our anniversary.

She hands us the receipt and some pointed, parting advice. “Just pray to God it doesn’t happen to you.”

Only, I can’t help thinking, it will. It’s bound to. In this moment, we all know it.

We’re one day closer.

Still, today we escape. Through motion-sensor doors parting. To the promise of a beckoning blue sky and breath in our lungs.

Back on task, we drive to the next town over. Home of all the fun bake shops. Share a lemon latte and a half stick of butter in the shape of something flaky. Take seventeen selfies. Delete sixteen.

And since our son and pregnant daughter-in-law live around the next corner, we drop by with pastry and tea. Tomorrow is her due date and she stands barefoot in the kitchen looking ready to pop.

In the dragon-themed nursery, tiny shoes sit in perfect formation, soft toys nestle in a basket, pristine onesies fill a drawer.

Waiting.

We all wish he would just come already. Meanwhile, one thing’s for sure . . .

They’re one day closer to parenthood. And we’re one day closer to holding our grandson.

Still . . . as Garth and I walk downtown, I’m still haunted by our encounter with the cashier. As surely as that baby will any day make his appearance . . .

we’ll someday make our exit.

Later we linger in the park over a history marker neither of us have ever stopped to read. I think about all these old-growth trees have witnessed. Birds chirp wildly and a young mom watches her toddler roll down a grassy knoll.

In this place where the river slows nearly to a stop and becomes so glassy and reflective it’s called Mirror Pond, I sip my warm cup of something lavendery. And I sense my soul’s gradual movement in the current of time. The inevitability of passages.

The same God who’s knitting our grandson together in the womb knit Garth and I together.

And here’s the question on the breeze, chilling the crepey, fifty-something-year-old skin on my arms, making me wish I’d brought my sweater.

How does one prepare for the stitch-ripping?

On a park bench, we share a falafel wrap and watch the mallards glide, their emerald heads iridescent in the sun. Sometimes I can see their webbed feet under the water. Paddle paddle.

A ways off, a hen and her drake traverse to the opposite shore. A gentle wake follows them. Briefly.

If I lost my spouse tomorrow, what will I wish I’d done better today?

Love?
Honor?
Cherish?

Or maybe it won’t be so much about what I would have done as how I will wish I’d have been.

Was I enslaved to frenetic, below-the-surface paddling? Or did we encourage each other to live daily in the power and freedom Christ bought for us, to glide together with purpose and calm certainty toward the better shore?

[bctt tweet=”Will we encourage each other to live in the power and freedom Christ bought for us, to glide together with purpose and calm certainty toward the better shore?” username=”KitTosello”]

Will our marriage leave a legacy in its wake? How important is this to me?

I know one thing for sure. Today I’m one day closer to the next version of my life.

How will I live out that truth today, beneath these trees that watch . . .

couples kiss,
grandsons grow,
and widows remember?

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