Recently I had the opportunity to speak with someone I had not spoken to in years.  They had previously lived in our area and we had attended church together . . . but then her husband began experiencing what turned out to be the early stages of Alzheimer’s.  At that time they were living in a home nestled in the middle of 90 acres . . . 90 heavily wooded acres . . . with a four to five acre lake.  She could read the handwriting on the wall and knew, for her sanity and his safety, they would have to downsize considerably, at least on the amount of property.

And so they did, selling a place with historical significance and literally hundreds of pink and white dogwoods, a multitude of azaleas in every color imaginable, and countless wildflowers—an untouched paradise save for the house they built on the water’s edge.  It was a magical place that allowed for endless wandering and new discoveries on every adventure, a place that, once you were there, bound you heart and soul to the land and its history.

Life moved on and the years passed.  Her husband’s health continued to decline and, once more, downsizing seemed a wise course of action.  So the house was sold and they ventured into the smaller side of a duplex they owned in a larger city.  When the adjoining tenant’s lease was up, they gave them notice and prepared to make what would hopefully be their last move—across a wall and into a tad more square footage.  But there would not be any trails to hike, no historical structures to discover, no dogwoods within arm’s reach of the porch or azaleas and wildflowers setting the woods ablaze with color.  There would be no lake to contemplate while sitting on the porch swing, coffee in hand, or birds to enjoy as they worked to maintain the property.  But for her sanity and his safety . . .

As we talked that day and she related the details of life as she now knew it, her voice broke and I could hear the grief in her words.  “I loved that place.  I loved it so much.  I’m an outdoors person and I always enjoyed hiking there—and it was so beautiful and so peaceful . . .  But we can’t go back anymore.  We used to, just to fiddle around and rake and clear the brush, but we can’t go back now.  We just can’t . . .” And although I tried to assure her she had done the right thing by selling, and reminded her of how difficult it would have been to continue where they were, I knew that my words, though they were true, would not ease the pain of loss she was experiencing.  And it wasn’t just the voluntary loss of their beloved home so many years ago.  It was the loss of a way of life.

Most of us have something that Life—or Death–has taken from us, something that was so much a part of us at one time, but to which we can no longer return.  Life can be cruel like that, asking you to work hard with the promise of better things to come, and then yanking the proverbial rug from under your feet.  Whether it’s a place or a time or a person, the adjustment to the loss is never complete.  It can’t be.  Whenever something or someone so dear to your heart goes missing, for whatever reason, a part of you is lost as well.

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