It’s a journey no one wants, yet all we who love will be confronted with it at some point. For the past few days, my mind has been busy reliving, recalling, remembering and rehearsing many details of two years ago.

My body was literally shutting down from the trauma of a barrage of serious health conditions that didn’t let up. My husband, who I had lost mentally and emotionally three years earlier to dementia, simply could not comprehend why I wasn’t at home with him.

His solution was to stop eating and drinking — he didn’t want to live without me. No, that’s not flattering to a degree, but I needed him well because he was my biggest concern. Others stayed with him, my dear daughter stretching herself thin.

Family came from Michigan to aid and assist. Finally, he was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia, just down the hall from me.

With great effort, they loaded me into a wheelchair with IV’s and oxygen to visit him. It was a pitiful sight. My heart breaking, I asked for a few minutes alone with him. Even in his comatose state, there was hope that he heard me — for the last time.

Caressing his strong hand in mine, kissing him on the forehead and the lips, I collapsed back into the wheelchair, totally spent.

Once secured back in my own hospital bed, daughter and middle grandson (full time Army medic), sat on either side of his bed each holding one of his hands.

No one knows how badly I needed to be there with him; my body simply did not have the strength to do it.

As I waited alone, no one had to speak when they walked somberly into my room at 2:30 a.m. I didn’t sleep at all that night. They shared their last goodbyes to him with me and went home to grab a little shuteye.

They planned and coordinated the next few days, including the flag ceremony and Taps. They made an enormous display of photographs and memorabilia honoring his life. There are many details to planning a sendoff.

This may sound weird, but it was the best funeral I have ever attended. It was truly a celebration of his life!

All but one grandchild spoke. My little brother, a hunting buddy and others had emotional, yet fun, stories to share about him. The soloist sang “The Last Farewell” by Roger Whittaker. He had never heard it before. Since then many have commented on that choice.

The other music, encouraging and uplifting, was chosen by daughter.

You may wonder why grief is a gift. It’s easy for me to understand. It gives me the opportunity to keep alive so many happy and wonderful memories of our loved one. It’s hard to explain how that has helped me cope with my son’s death in 2000.

Don’t dwell on the negatives with any loss. There is no point in questioning God’s timing or wisdom. He has a plan for each of us.

Seek peace from the Good Shepherd and Redeemer of the world. Truly seek it rather than dwelling on negatives.

Why me? Why not me?

Death is merely the final stage of life on this earth but it’s a beginning with an eternal walk if you are prepared. Feel sad but seek to go on.

Henry Van Dyke wrote “Gone from My Sight” to perfectly describe death:

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,

spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts

for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.

I stand and watch her until; at length, she hangs like a speck

of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, “There, she is gone.

Gone where? Gone from my sight. That is all.

She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side.

And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me — not in her.

And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,”

there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices

ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”

And that is dying…

Grief truly is a gift, as it helps me focus on all the beauty and goodness of relationships without putting them on a pedestal. With the blessing of having no regrets, it elicits peace, comfort and love that have been freely shared. My lost ones would want me to be happy.

Every day is a gift, so open it up.