This is the day Paul would have been 29.

Six years ago today, I went on a casual date with a friend for his birthday.  We went to Fazoli's on campus (mostly for the free breadsticks!) and then I watched him snuggle face-first with cats he was allergic to at some friends' house. I thought to myself, What a strange, but light-hearted, kid.  I had no idea that the just-beginning-friendship of that autumn would soon burgeon into a full-blown romance, engagement, and marriage.  I had no inkling of the sadness we'd face together, whether over family happenings, job loss and financial difficulties, health on both accounts, or infertility.  I had no comprehension of the simple or profound joys that he would introduce me to--the world of science fiction, the love of puppies, traveling the country together, the wonders of marital bliss in the moments we could find them, the satisfaction of working and serving alongside one another in just about everything, the peace of a quiet night at home in our PJs.  I had no idea I'd found my better half, and I don't mean that he was better in every way than me (although that is almost true).  I mean that he complemented me, brought out my best, made up for my worst, encouraged me in every good and creative thing, and taught me more about what true love is by his own actions and even just the look in his eyes than any sermon anyone could ever preach. He was my biggest fan, my eternal love, and my very best friend in all the world.

I took him for granted.

It happens.

And now that we're separated by the veil, I have learned and felt and known a few things that I don't know how to share with you but that I want so desperately to share all the same in my own pitiful words that will sound so very trite but are the essence of all that I know and feel right now.

Life is precious.
The gospel of Jesus Christ, as restored in the latter-days, is true.  The Plan of Happiness is real.  SO REAL.
4 years of marriage or 40, it wouldn't have been enough time.
Prayers are truly heard by our Heavenly Father. Especially when it happens in big numbers for "the one" that has wandered.
People are wonderful and caring and kind, sometimes even to random strangers.
The Lord knew this would happen, and He prepared us both as much as He could for this moment in time.
I am okay.
Grief is not a decrescendo.
I have work to do!
I am not alone.

Seven weeks have passed since he passed through the veil and "returned home to that God who gave him life." I can't believe it's been that long.  I can't believe it's been that short.  Time, memory, these things escape me constantly. I have work and my church calling with our upcoming primary program and work and wonderful friends and family and puppies and hobbies and WORK to keep me busy. I try to focus on the positive things, the miracles and tender mercies of the Lord that have gotten me through it, the power of being sustained literally by hosts of angels on both sides of the veil. I try not to get *too* caught up in the new fears that come with living alone in a new house, or the sadness when I look at the clock and expect him to come walking through the door after a long day's work, then realize it's just not going to happen. Ever. Again. I pray and ponder to try to find out why I'm still here, why he couldn't just take me with him--what my purpose is, what I really want to accomplish--so that when it's my turn to join him I feel ready.  I want to leave a legacy of love and service and happiness and faith, as he did.  So I try to live worthy of him every day.  What would Paul do?

Meanwhile, I'm back here in the waiting place. I'm not waiting anymore for the children that will never be ours. I'm not waiting for that dream job or that perfect day or any of our several planned travels together that will never be. Now I just wait for the day when the promise of our temple marriage, our eternal sealing, will be fulfilled, when we will never again be separated from one another or from the God we both love and serve. I wait for those perfect bodies that will be ours forever, for the restoration of all good things one hundredfold as He has promised to the grieving and bereaved.

More than that, though, I am waiting on the Lord. Not waiting around. Waiting--serving, trusting, hoping, acting, emulating in my own small and unremarkable way that will never measure up to His example no matter how hard I try. Waiting for Him to rescue me, as my faith in His Atonement assures, from all sin, grief, weakness, and longing of mortality.

This kind of waiting is a peaceful, happy, busy thing.  

But today, I miss him extra.

I love you, Paul. Thanks for being my everything. Thanks for living so we had no regrets. Thanks for making so many things work out and taking care of me even after you've gone. I wouldn't have traded a single second of it.

Happy birthday, love.