A year ago I wrote my Thanksgiving blog post at the hospital bedside of my wife. I didn’t know she was dying. I thought she was suffering from a bad reaction to chemotherapy.
A few days later, on December 1, she entered into what John Paul II so aptly called “our Father’s house.”
When I read the post I wrote last year, I am embarrassed by my glib naiveté.
For example, I quoted the Greek philosopher Epictetus, who taught us to rejoice in what we have—not grieve for what we don’t.
It was easy for me write that a year ago because I believed Jo Anne would live.
But she didn’t. She caught her breath one last time and breathed no more, just as the sun was rising on a new day for her, for me.
I write a different blog post this Thanksgiving than last year's, a more humble one, because I am a different man than the one she left behind. And for this I am thankful today.
So, this poem to Jo Anne . . .
We watched the space station passing over one night soon
before she passed.
Who knew this would be the last time we saw
something so awe inspiring
together, we raised with Sputnik?
We stand shoulder to shoulder now
as we did that night,
but differently now.
She before God’s face in some
I staring at some tabernacle
hope is not hope if its object is seen.