Well, hello there...

I can't believe I'm writing this. I mean, it's been nearly 2 years.

But cancer doesn't know the difference.

The past few hours, I have been rereading the blog posts following Dalton's death. Horrifically, cancer claimed the life of another dear friend today, and I wanted desperately to be able to say something profound and helpful to his wife and son. Unfortunately, what I remembered almost immediately is that there is really nothing to be said. Grief cannot be cured by insightful retrospective. It isn't soothed by witticism or even empathy. It doesn't even have the decency to manifest similarly in each of its hosts.

But, I think, grief is gracious. And, I hope it will be gracious to my friend.

I'm sorry that so much of the past two years has gone undocumented. But, that too may have been a necessary part of the process. I've learned, after all, that regrets are worthless and that everything we do has value and meaning in this life - even the things we fail to do. For tonight, anyway, I feel compelled to write and to do so publicly. Only God knows about tomorrow.

On Friday afternoons,
we'd sit on the balcony
and pray.
We'd pray
and drink red wine.
White in the summer.
The three of us would talk about our husbands -
how their lack of detail
irritated us
how their childish humor
tickled us
how their Godly love
humbled us.
We prayed for
right hearts,
gentle spirits,
and kids.
Babies were hard to come by.
Miscarriages and monthly disappointments were the norm.
But then, Daniel.
And Elliot.
And Iain.
God was so good,
We were so grateful.

Perhaps we should have kept meeting.
Drinking wine on the balcony.
Then, maybe, the cancer wouldn't have come
and snatched two of our
irritating
childish
loving
husbands
away.
We prayed for
right heart,
gentle spirits,
and kids.
I only wish we'd known to pray for more.