I don’t know why death anniversaries place such weight on our hearts, but they just do. It’s not as if the person is going to die again; it’s not as if we don’t miss them every day, regardless of the date. I think it’s that the memory of our grief from that particular, fateful day feels stronger because it has been brought to the forefront of our minds.

Why, then, do I feel down already, while Sunday, January 23 is still days away?

I find myself distracted. I stare at a spot on the screen or my desk or the dining room table while my mind drifts. (This is not a good scenario when I have an article summary due tomorrow!) I find myself pausing what I’m doing and sitting very still, trying to remember exactly how his face looked at church that one Sunday while we were singing, and he turned and smiled at me. I like to remember his hearty laugh, and if I’m still and quiet enough, it still echoes in my memory.

I kind of wish that the 23rd didn’t fall on a Sunday, because I want to just pull the covers over my head and stay in my bed all day (as if that would even be an option in a house with five kids!! LOL). I don’t want to go to church and be happy and greet people with a smile on my face. I said I didn’t want to … doesn’t mean that I won’t. I’m a leader and ought to be there. Besides, I need to be there. I need the fellowship of my church family.

I just miss him so darn much.

Two years it has been, yet I can still feel my heart race when I think about the phone call, the urgency to get out the door and on the road, the anxiety of what to do with the kids – one of whom was spending the night with a friend. I can still feel the sinking pressure in my chest from the long periods of time riding in the dark, weeping and praying, waiting for a call with an update and knowing that the longer it was until the call came, the worse the news would be.

Sometimes I wish that I could make those memories go away and only remember the pleasant ones.