You may want to hang out around the gate tomorrow. Marg died Sunday evening, so she should be there soon. I didn't get to see her; please give her a hug for me.
I'd appreciate it if you'd pray for me on Friday. I'll be going to the viewing and I'm already struggling with it. I'm not crying so much for her. Her death was a lot like yours - she'd earned her rest, and she seemed to be ready. But I can't stop crying for Jim. I've been to some viewings since you died, but not one where I knew the new widow as well and as long as I've known Jim. I'm afraid I'll get there Friday and bawl. I suppose worse things could happen. But I don't want to make things any harder on everybody. And it would be nice to be able to communicate coherently.
Maybe I'll cry it all out before then. That would be good. But I seem to have a bottomless well of bawling, so it's unlikely. All I can do is my best. But I'd really appreciate your prayers. And I know you'll be praying for Jim and the kids. I don't think he's on Facebook, but I want to be sure he knows about our widow's group and knows that he's welcome to join us. We'd be happy to have a token man.
I woke up this morning humming Cat Stevens, and one verse stayed in my head:
And though your dreams may toss and turn you now, they will vanish away like your daddy's best jeans, denim blue fading up to the sky. And though you want them to last forever, you now they never will. And patches make the goodbye harder still.
I didn't want you to live forever, just not to go before I did. But I know the odds - at best, women live longer than men, and you'd had your first cancer when we were nineteen. I hoped we'd beat the odds. But every little girl grows up knowing she'll most likely be a widow someday. And Cat Stevens was right - it is the patches that make the goodbye so hard. Now Jim is learning what I mean. Please pray for him.
Love you with all my heart,