A Seat by the Window

"Ma'am, we'll need you to bring your marriage license to our office to complete your paperwork."

My hair stood on end. I had to visit the same building, floor, and waiting room as I did to excitedly change my last name to "Sunberg" shortly after our honeymoon. Only this time, with our marriage license and Ryan's death certificate clutched in the same hand; proof that we belonged to one another and proof that he's not here to belong to anymore. That full circle moment just about ripped my heart out of my chest. I felt sick.

Ryan's parents met and my parents met in that same sweet college town where we started. Though the start was not easy and we already had a brain surgery under our belts six months before our wedding, we still held so many hopes and plans for the decades we prayed were ahead of us. We were not yet burdened by the concerns that came soon after. While I think of our time there so fondly, it has surprisingly been one of the hardest places to revisit.

"...And through his faith, though he died, he still speaks. And without faith it is impossible to please Him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe He exists and that He rewards those who seek Him. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared for them a city." -Hebrews 11:4,6,16

Ryan's late stage cancer came with many follow up appointments, many long commutes to the hospital, and many hours wondering what those black and white images on the computer screen would reveal. There was no escaping the reality of what he lived with every day and we knew, at any point, our lives could be turned upside down. Despite the urge to rush home to the boys, familiarity, and comfort, we made a commitment to have a lunch date at a restaurant across the street from the hospital after every visit. For eight years, we habitually sat at the same table next to the window to decompress.

At that table, we made gut wrenching medical decisions. We made plans for the family we had. We made plans for the family we still wanted to grow. We made five and even ten year plans that we knew may never come to fruition. We made plans for an afternoon nap when we got back. We made plans for the best route to drive home. We made no plans at all, and sat in silence watching strangers walk briskly by. At the time, it was all to simply numb the day's myriad of anxieties, or have conversations we knew we could not have in the audience of our young sons. With full hindsight now, we learned to sit with the difficulty, live fully anyway, and trust that regardless of how our life together on this earth played out, God would be glorified.

So here I am, on what would have been our 14th wedding anniversary, an hour and a half away from home, looking at the hospital I thought I never wanted to see again, with a holy jealousy in my heart aching to worship where he is. I have no plans beyond tomorrow, but here I sit in my seat, remembering the whole life lived and the whole life hoped for at our table next to the window.

Copyright 2024->Renee Sunberg