Love Letter

A New Journey

Dear Beloved husband,

Happy Anniversary! Today would have been 48 years for us, 48 years for two crazy kids who had no money, few skills, and no idea how hard life would be. The night before our wedding, I worried that I would not be able to love you in the way that you deserved.  You loved me in a way I could never hope to match. But I knew we were meant to face life together. When we promised to love each other--no matter what--we were both too young to know just what "the no matter what" could be. 

It didn't take us long to find out. I prayed my love would be strong enough.

Somehow, we managed to scrap together enough money for a down payment on our "starter house", the place where we lived all of our married life. Within the walls of that three-bedroom row home, we raised three kids and provided shelter to the horde of "Lost boys" who joined our ranks and stretched our food budget. There was never quite enough money, but there was always more than enough love to cover us all.

Those years of raising the kids on a shoestring might have seemed hard at the time, but they were only practice for what was to come. We learned, in the first 19 years of our marriage, to stick together, to uplift each other. The love I had for you when I was twenty grew by leaps and bounds. As my love for you strengthened, so did my faith. We learned to laugh even when the cupboards were bare and the bills were deep. We learned to hang onto each other and onto God.

Then came the tough years. In 1992--the same year I returned to college to finish my purloined degree in education--you began to show signs of mental strain. Our furniture and our walls suffered as you often needed to take out your inner demons on physical items. We rode the roller coaster of bipolar disorder for years while you fought your battles and I did all I could to protect the kids. Those years really tested my commitment to you and there were times when my love wore a bit thin. Was I strong enough? But I was--and am--a girl who honors her promises. I stayed. After seven years of hospitalizations and therapists, you made some progress. Life settled down. I finished my degree, started on a Master's, and took a job as a teacher. At last, money was no longer a major issue.

Then the unexpected happened. On March 2, 2000, a red pickup truck struck your car on Paoli Pike as you were on your way home from work. You were rushed to Crozer Chester Medical Center, your chest crushed, your arm almost severed, and your life beginning to drain from your body. That first terrible hospitalization lasted ten months. Each night, as I left your room on One North, or the Intensive Care Unit, or the Telemetry Unit, I wondered if you would survive the night. If I would lose you that night. Against all odds, you made it home to the little brick house. We even managed to celebrate our 25th Wedding Anniversary with a renewal of our vows. But the damage had been done. The next years found you in the hospital more often than you were home.

Somehow, we found a way to make it work. I got my Master's, got a better job, and began work on a doctorate. It wasn't easy. None of it was. But even with our lives bent out of shape, we still found pockets of happiness. Too many hospitals, too many surgeries, too many pieces of you left us a piece at a time. Too much of me was stretched too thin. I was exhausted. But I still loved you, deeply and wholly. even if I sometimes failed to recognize you beneath the damaged man you became.

The older two kids left for their own lives. Our youngest, Allen, was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. I stayed and held the pieces together. In the last few years, my love, I did everything I could to help ease your pain, to find you the care you needed. And while the twenty-year-old me could never have foreseen it, I found myself fully capable of all life demanded of me. I found God to be sufficient to supply my needs.

I would have willingly spent my last breath taking care of you.

God is merciful. He knew, as I did not, that your own energy was spent. The pain that had been your companion for almost two decades depleted you. There were only fragments left of the person you were 48 years ago. He took you home to Him on July 13, 2019.

I stood at your grave the day you were buried, grateful that God had allowed me to remain steadfast to the end, and I realized that the depth of love I had doubted so long ago had, indeed, been strong enough. I entered our little “starter home” that day determined to carry on with my life, but struggling to recall the way you had been on our wedding day. I thought my journey with you was finished.

Then Allen, our autistic son, pulled me into a new journey. And as he hunted for you and tried to bring you home—convinced you had not really died—I began to remember who you had been before illness stole you away. What we had been like as a couple, and as a family. I found our story had not yet ended.

A bit at a time, I fell in love with you again.

Forever,

Linda

Linda Cobourn is working on a book entitled Finding Father: A Journey of Faith on the Autism Spectrum. The book recounts her son’s unique grief experience as he tried for eight months to find “Dad” and bring him home. You can help her find a publisher and read more about Allen’s search for his father by signing up for her free blog at Quirky: Because we're all a little different