More random thoughts on my journey following the death of my wife, Renee.

Dates trigger memories. Yesterday was 21 years since 9-11. That day started out as just another Tuesday for me. I was preparing to leave home for a deposition when the first unclear reports began coming across the TV news shows. Soon, we were watching together, all thoughts of work gone. I don't think we spoke much - I don't think we could. I know I was glad she was there with me as we sensed the world changing before our eyes.

As I am typing this, today's date triggers another, much happier memory. It was 22 years ago today that, because of a series of strange events that had happened months before, one of my great friends and I played golf at Pebble Beach. That alone would have made it memorable. In fact, I can still remember almost all of my [too] many shots that day. But, what made that day completely magical was the fact that our wives were with us, riding along in the carts, experiencing along with us the magnificence and spectacular views which, according to Robert Louis Stevenson, are part of "the greatest meeting of land and sea that nature has produced".

What a strange thing memories are. Some are as sharp as the moment they occurred, no matter how long ago. Some are "misty water-colored", to quote from "The Way We Were". Others are vague and dull. Others are simply gone - vanished into the mists in my mind.

Now here it is, approaching eight months since the day she left, and I find myself wondering why my memories of our time together are so jumbled, why they are so strangely arranged, and frankly, why they are so sparse. We dated for two and a half years, and then were married for 38 and a half years. There ought to be gigantic files of data to choose from, to call up and re-live with the click of a mouse. And yes, there are many "snapshots", and "video clips" of those years in my mind - some sharp, others less so.

But it doesn't seem like there is nearly as much there as there should be. Is all that data just gone, lost, deleted? And what makes the stuff I do remember so memorable? Sure, it makes sense that the Pebble Beach trip would be remembered with great clarity. But what about other trips? What about the many Christmases and birthdays and anniversaries and family reunions? What about all those times of sorrow and all those times of joy? Those times of celebration and those times of mourning? What about all of the typical and usual days - those days in which nothing particularly significant happened - just real life taking place a little at a time, but which, when added together, make up most of who she was, and who I am, and who we were? Why have those days seemingly melted away from my memories? What does that say about me?

In his song "Beautiful Boy", written for his five year old son, Sean, John Lennon reminds us that, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Sure, the "big" moments are easily remembered. They are carefully planned and orchestrated and choreographed, and then recorded with photos and videos so they can be re-lived and recalled at any time. And this is as it should be.

But those moments are not the daily bread and daily breath of life. The cameras are not rolling [thankfully] as we go about the ordinary things of life. Who would watch? Who would care?

But we should care because that is where life is happening, and life is so wonderfully amazing! What we shrug off as "same old, same old", or "same stuff, different day" is, I have now come to believe, precious beyond count, it is richness beyond the wealth of Croesus. It is something to be embraced, to be savored, to be enjoyed, to be remembered.

John Lennon recorded "Beautiful Boy" on August 12,1980. One of the lines says, "I can hardly wait to see you come of age." As the song ends and the music fades, John speaks these words: "Goodnight, Sean. See you in the morning, bright and early." Four months later, John Lennon was dead.

I hope that those last four months were full of the ordinary precious things of life for them.

I wonder if Renee thought that her last four months were full of the ordinary precious things of life? I wish I could remember.

Ambrose Ramsey | Pastor and Shepherd