Some people have the post office hold their mail when they go out of town. I have a much simpler system. My neighbor stops by my box out at the end of the driveway and collects my mail for me anytime I’m gone on a trip, or a holiday, or a vacation that includes fishing. She is a very nice person. A day or two after I’m home, I go by her house, and she hands me a sack of mail.

I wouldn’t want you to make a saint out of her, or anything like that. Her mailbox is less than 12 inches from mine. We share the same drive for the first 1,000 feet. It’s not like I’m placing any undo burden on her by asking for this favor. In return, I give her donkeys water anytime she and her husband are out of town.

So, we have a system. It’s called being neighbors.

I went through my sack. Most of it was junk, of course. Coupon booklets. Offers of up to $200K in operating capital. Some health care company wanting to make sure I’m getting all the Medicare benefits I deserve.

I even got a collection notice from a legal firm with three unpronounceable names. For some reason, they put the word “Fiduciary” by my name. I shouldn’t mention the bank’s name in a public forum like this, but it rhymes with discover. Somehow, they’ve connected me to my sister, and they want me to pay her bill from over a year ago.

I filed their letter in a very safe place.

In the bottom of the mail sack was a card-sized envelope with a hand-written address. Anything hand-written stands out among the junk. I’m drawn to it. There’s no return address. I pull out my pocketknife and slide it down the upper fold.

It says, “A Note for You.”

Inside the card are thirteen short messages from the ladies’ group at Northside Christian Church. Words like, “our family loves you,” or “thinking of you,” or “always here for you.”

March 21st was Beth’s birthday.

I read every note twice, maybe three times. I love church ladies. And these are not the blue-hair type. They’re not sitting in a circle knitting. They get stuff done. They take care of folks with casseroles by the truck load. They hunker down and move large obstacles with prayer. And they write notes to let folks know they are not forgotten.

One lady says, “Hey good looking.” She’s happily married but legally blind. Just kidding. About the blind part. She just has me confused with someone else.

How about this one: “Hope you have a great day woodworking, or napping, or porch rocking, or whatever retired people do.” There must be a camera at my house. She’s young and I make sure I give her a hug every Sunday.

One says that it’s a time of “bittersweet” memories.

I was well aware of the day last week. I saw her birthday coming from a mile away. I knew I would be out of town. I even planned for it when I asked Emily, our youngest, to take care of putting flowers at her grave.

This is the third one since her death. There are some dates that I doubt I will ever forget.

If you’re widowed, you know. Life goes on. Memories linger. It’s hard to know when it’s okay to be okay. You approach these dates tentatively because you have kids who are at different places in their own journeys without their mom.

They remember. You remember. You try to say the right thing. You try not to say the wrong thing. Mostly, everyone is moving on with their lives. Time is healing the wounds. But on days like this, it’s all still fresh.

Look. I loved my wife. Forever and completely. And I’m really okay these days, even though she is gone. Yet I still wrestle sometimes with the thought of wondering if it’s okay to be okay. Part of me wondered if I should feel a little guilty last week for being out on a boat fishing on her birthday. And if I’m honest, the thought crossed my mind that my kids might think I was being disrespectful of her.

They would never do that. They know my heart. But the influence of grief begs such thoughts. Even after three years.

This is the crazy part of losing a spouse. There is no right way to do this. There is no wrong way. Maybe there are ways that are more beneficial than others. More healing. And, on the other end, more destructive. We have to navigate wisely. There are no set timetables. No common cure for grief.

I’m sitting on the boat. It’s Beth’s birthday. Marion is standing a few feet away. We both know what day it is. My son sends me a link to a song that reminds him of his mom. I play it for everyone on the boat. They’re still fishing, but it’s quiet. We’re all listening. My sunglasses are hiding small tears.

It could be awkward to think of Beth with Marion around. But it’s not. This is my life these days. I have this incredible second chance at a love I could never have seen coming. One of the ways I see a greater Hand in this is because Marion wants to know about my life with Beth. We celebrate each other’s spouses. We talk about them freely because we know they will always be a part of who we are.

This “new us” has been a little tough on the kids, both hers and mine. Adjusting to change is not easy. I’ve had my own struggles allowing myself to move on. Marion lost Mike over 9 years ago. It’s not been quite three years for me. Neither of us was looking or dating or wanting a change. But here we are.

One line in the note card stirred me the most: “Love your memories but continue to enjoy your life.”

It’s profound to me that others can see the joy in my life and celebrate it. Sometimes it seems like everyone else is okay with us long before I’m okay with us. So, I take words of encouragement like this last one as if they are God-whispers to my soul.

If you’re struggling, if your spouse is gone, hear me out. You are going to make life work for you. I have no idea where the journey will take you, but you’re going to be okay, and you will enjoy life again.

I am enjoying life in case you’re wondering. And this Sunday is going to be a special day. After church, after we celebrate the most significant reason for joy, Marion and I are going to enjoy another moment. We are getting our families together for the first time. Lunch at her house in Newnan.

Our grown kids are ready but nervous. Our grandkids are oblivious to any of the drama. They are excited and only care about playing ball after lunch.

Since Beth passed, my life has been full of firsts.

Here goes one more.