Sunday Afternoon Musings
What a Conversation That Will Be
Forty years ago today, Martin left to pick up his best friend and business partner, Bassim, from a week-long Colorado River rafting trip.
Because it was August in Southern Nevada, Bassim hadn’t wanted his wife Becky and the kids driving into the desert to wait for him in the heat. So Martin and Barry, a young friend, made the drive instead.
None of us knew that morning would become the dividing line between before and after.
This summer has been harder than I expected. Memories have surfaced without warning. A song. A photograph. A conversation. A smell. Some days the tears waited just beneath the surface, and I wondered how I would face this milestone anniversary.
Today Ken and I are driving to Las Vegas. We’re bringing camping chairs because we don’t want to rush our visit to the cemetery. I had Martin’s headstone restored and refinished last month. The pictures the company provided took my breath away. Tomorrow, we’ll spend time sitting beside it, remembering, telling stories, laughing, and probably crying a little.
As is always the case, my thoughts today are also with Becky.
Our stories belong together. We became part of one another’s history on the same day. She texted me early this morning with a message so personal and meaningful that I read it again and cried. It was exactly what my heart needed.
But something else happened this morning.
I don’t know what changed while I slept, but I didn’t wake up with the same weight I carried to bed.
I woke up grateful.
As I lay there staring at the ceiling, I realized something I had never thought about before.
For forty years, I’ve thought about the life I’ve lived since Martin died.
This morning, for the first time, I found myself thinking about seeing him again.
Forty years is a long time.
I have so much to tell him.
Six children.
Nineteen grandchildren.
Books I’ve written.
My college degree.
Heartbreaks.
Miracles.
Blessings.
Faith.
Then I smiled.
I had never considered that he would also have stories to tell.
I can hear myself talking a mile a minute until he laughs and reminds me to slow down. Then I’ll stop and listen.
What a conversation that will be.
These forty years haven’t been easy. There have been potholes, ditches, and more than a few switchbacks. But there has also been sunshine, laughter, purpose, deep love, and remarkable joy.
I survived.
By the grace of God, I have also thrived.
Perhaps it hasn’t been so different for him.
I’m grateful beyond words for the years Martin and I shared. I’m grateful for the life I’ve been blessed to live since then. And I’m deeply grateful for Ken, whose love never required me to leave Martin behind. It was Ken who insisted Martin’s pictures belonged on our family wall because he understood something beautiful—remembrance doesn’t divide love.
Today there will be tears.
But today, more than anything else, there is gratitude.
Gratitude for the years we were given.
Gratitude for the years that followed.
And gratitude for the certainty that one day, a conversation interrupted forty years ago will begin again.
— Charlene