I don't want to forget him. Now, of course, as I write that I can hear you saying, "You will NEVER forget him" and thats absolutely true. What I DON'T want to forget is the little things....how he used to make what I call "the daffy duck face" when he felt silly about something, or the way his hands felt as I held them, all rough and care worn. My mom and I were talking about my dad the other day and she said, "What I missed after your father died was his whistling"....I forgot how he used to whistle!! And he whistled great....he could have been the guy whistling the tune on "The Andy Griffith Show" theme song, he was that good. That got me thinking....what do I want to remember about Barry?
I want to remember the way he said hello, which was "HELLoooooo", or sometimes he'd say, 'herrrOOHHH" or "whats up buttercup?" or the way he'd say " I love you tooo"...when I'd tell him I love him. I want to remember how he used to get up in the morning and scratch AJ(our corgi) until he AJ rolled all over the floor in anticipation of getting his dog cookie in the morning and how he'd get up and make a pot of coffee on Saturday morning,put it in a thermos, bring me the paper and we would read the paper in bed and drink coffee for about an hour. I want to remember how he slurped his coffee and said "ahhhhh" with that first sip, and how he always had a packet of splenda in his robe pocket for me when I wanted a refill. I want to remember how he would cry every time, yes every single time the youth kids would have the Christian Witness night and they would profess their love for Jesus and what He meant to them. It never failed...and the kids teased him constantly yet lovingly for this. He just loved those kids. And he cried when I sang too, unashamedly. That was the sweetest thing for me. When I would sing in church, I would always look for him at the end of my song and there he was with tears in his eyes. He tried not too....but that tell-tale little cough he would make when he got a lump in his throat was a dead giveaway. I want to remember the way he would run with that little gimpy gait of his, and the way he yelled, "NASCAR!!!" with Ryan at the Nascar races and Ryan would respond, "WOOHOO!" and they would high five each other. Every year. When he first took me to the Nascar races in Vegas I was unenthusiastic to go, except for the Vegas part of it. But when I first heard those engines start up and felt the raw power and the crowd going crazy I was hooked. I thought Barry might be unhappy to have his wife go with him....maybe this was just "guy time" that I was taking away from him, but he loved that I enjoyed it with him. I want to remember the way he said ' BRRR!!" when he got into bed and the sheets were cold. He hated the cold....he was always cold and I was having hot flashes. I was always opening the window and turning on the fan and he, bless his sweet soul, put up with it. He would say he was freezing and turn on the heated mattress pad in the bed and just deal with me. What a man. A real man. Seriously...that is a man who loves his wife who does that and does not complain. The one thing I will always remember and never, never forget is how he loved me. Really, really loved me. That whole, unselfish love that every man should have for his wife and I, as his wife...I was blessed. To know that I am no longer a wife stabs at my heart, because I truly cherished that part in my life and was so proud to call him my husband. I still expect him to walk in the door. My head knows different but my heart is still not accepting the fact that he is not gonna walk thru that front door with a cheerful hello, the clink of his keys on the table, the clunk of his shoes on the floor and a big hug waiting for me every day when he came home. The hug.....oh how I miss that all encompasing hug he always had. I will always miss that....and never forget the love. I love you Barry. Always. And that I will never forget.
I was living in Hawaii when my mom died and because of our military life, I never lived near my parents--they were always visitors or I visited them.
ReplyDeleteI didn't realize how I thought about my life until my mom was gone (suddenly, of a brain anneurism three days before Christmsa)--how I had spent each week "framing" the stories I would tell her on the phone.
It caught me several times when the kids would do something and I'd think, "oh, Mom's going love this one." And then I'd realize, no mom.
I spoke with my mom on the phone every Sunday but my parents were world travelers and often would be gone for stretches of time.
A couple months after she died I was doing laundry and suddenly thought, "where IS Mom? I haven't heard from her in ages."
I actually went into the kitchen and picked up the phone to call her, before I remembered. No Mom.
And I put my head down and cried, howled, anew.
Grief is not a static thing; it catches us and seizes us at odd moments to rip our hearts out all over again.
Let your grief rip, Jan. It honors Barry and it's good for you--and for the rest of us who don't know what to do with the horror and the sadness of his loss.
He was a good man. You are a good wife. We love you.
Jan, I am a friend of The Ainsworths, and you and Barry have been in my prayers for quite a while. I thank you for sharing such intimate moments with us. It paints a picture of Barry so well, that I feel like a fly on the wall watching you have your morning coffee together.
ReplyDeleteI am so glad that you remember such tender moments. What a treasure. I pray God see's you through each day until you and Barry are reunited with Him.
I'm so proud of you, my sister, for so beautifully stating your grief. We're all learning from you, and you continue to inspire us all. Barry was blessed, and we all are blessed to have you in our lives.
ReplyDeleteTo put your heart-thoughts into words is one more of those healing steps. But, it also serves as a God-glorifying testimony of Barry's life, the love you shared and how God is walking you through this valley. May it be an anchor for your children and grandchildren, as well.
ReplyDeleteI'm still weaving those prayers into your rug. It's nearly finished; but, I assure you, the prayers will continue.