Mullis: A ‘mighty’ thought you can’t divide

My husband and I have a “divide and conquer” approach to our family’s schedule. It works well, except when our anniversary rolls around.

You can’t divide on your anniversary, but you can delay, which we’ve done.

Last year, we planned a weekend away. My husband brought home wine and chocolate.

Then, one of the kids had something somewhere and the other had something somewhere else and we canceled.

And I ate the chocolate.

And we drank the wine while watching TV.

This year our anniversary landed three days before my son’s graduation party. We talked about grabbing dinner or maybe lunch or maybe coffee or maybe waiting until after the grad party.

We decided to wait.

Planning a grad party had me thinking weird stuff, like how the active child-rearing part of our marriage is nearing its end. That’s 95 percent of our married life, most of it spent in different places. I started to wonder what else we had in common besides sleep-deprivation.

Having been to umpteen grad parties hosted by people in our situation, I know I’m not alone. One couple joked they would still go to high school games because that’s what they do together.

Yeah, that’s not how I thought this would go when I was a newlywed.

I needed us to observe our anniversary this year. My husband agreed to meet me at our church the morning of our anniversary to have our marriage blessed.

Simple, short, significant.

That morning I woke up early and filed my deadline. I plugged in my rollers and took the dog for his walk. As I rounded the final bend, one of my neighbors was walking down her driveway, a cane in one hand, an envelope in the other.

She waved. I stopped.

The last time we talked was after her husband died in May. Her grief had struck me as graceful, full of appreciation and devastation. They had been married 62 years – the sort of couple that makes marriage look good.

I asked if she was okay since she normally doesn’t walk with a cane.

She told me she didn’t need it. It was her husband’s cane, which she had yet to remove from its place by the door. She liked using it once in a while “for balance.” She held it loosely, the way one absently holds a loved one’s hand.

The envelope contained a copy of her husband’s death certificate, which she needed to mail. She had just finished a scrapbook of their life together and wanted to know if I would come and see it. We could sit on the porch so the dog would be happy.

I told her I would, but I had rollers waiting and a date at the church. When she heard it was my anniversary, she lit up like a wedding guest. She gave me a congratulatory hug.

Before I left, she told me a mighty thought had come to her while making the scrapbook, one that brought her great comfort. She decided to write it in the scrapbook. When her niece read it, she suggested my neighbor cross-stitch it on a sampler.

“Fred is part of me and I am part of him.”

I agreed it was a mighty thought and gave her a consoling hug.

I arrived home too late for curling my hair. I unplugged my rollers, slipped on my good shoes, and yelled for my youngest to hurry. She had basketball camp.

I arrived just before the first hymn began, my husband just after.

While we stood there, receiving our blessing and what felt like a half-gallon of holy water, I wondered why I worry.

I am part of him. He is part of me.

And you can cross-stitch that on a sampler.

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of “A Teacher Named Faith.” You can reach her at nlvm.columns@gmail.com or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.