In my mind, I am time traveling to March 17, 1989. I was in my room the day before our wedding, packing the last of my things when I heard my husband-to-be clatter down the steps.  He moved pretty fast back then.  He wrapped me in one of his giant hugs then looked me in the eyes with the brightest of smiles.  He was happy.  So was I.  We talked over the agenda for the evening as I taped the boxes.  He kissed me goodbye and took off again to our apartment with the things I had packed. 

When I saw him at the rehearsal that evening, he was wearing one of the bow ties from his tux with his plaid shirt.  I loved it.  I loved him!  We were happy, hopeful and ready to be on our own. Together. 

Our rehearsal dinner was perfect.  The McLaurins throw a great party.  They had just finished remodeling their home in Green Hills, and while it was definitely haunted (yes, I say that with a straight face) it was an ideal entertaining space.  We spent the final hours of the evening on the big screened-in porch talking and laughing with our family and our wedding party.  It could not have been better. 

At 11:55 p.m., I kissed Chris goodnight from the passenger seat of my friend’s truck and rode off to spend my last night at home as Lisa Casteel.  I don’t remember if I actually slept.

Thirty two years later, on the eve of our anniversary, my spirit swirls like the foreboding, warm-cold breeze outside my house this rainy day.  The memories are close, like a thousand whispers.  One minute I’m serene in my reverie and the next I am almost sent to my knees by grief that leaves me breathless.

I mentioned to my grief therapist that the second trip through these special days of our year seems far more difficult than the first.  It was not what I expected, but she was not surprised.  It is common to approach the firsts with our fists clenched and our spirits armed to the teeth.    In the second year, the shock that protected us in our early days fades.  We let down our guard, and without that armor in place reality is piercing.

In all of it, I circle back to thankfulness.  Without the counterbalance of thankfulness, loss can steal the joy from precious memories. Without thankfulness, it’s too easy to dwell on what isn’t rather than acknowledge what is.   I don’t want to give up these warm, sweet places in my past  — these memories that are mine alone – no matter how much it hurts right now.  The girl who packed those boxes 32 years ago did so with joy in her heart, and that joy in that time cannot be taken away from me unless I allow it. 

So tomorrow, as hard as it will be, I will be thankful. Even as my inner voice screams about how unfair it all is, I will be thankful.  I will visit Coleman Cemetery. I’ll replace the winter flowers with springtime blooms, and if the rain has stopped I will wash the mud from the headstone.  I will pray for continued healing and acceptance.  Most important of all,  I will give thanks for precious memories and for a love that never failed.