My husband looked at me with his comforting, no nonsense way and said, “Keep your chin up. One foot in front of the other.”

Standing outside the ER, I was gripped with fear and fighting back tears as they loaded him in the ambulance to take him to the hospital. They thought it was Covid-19. In that September of 2020, the pandemic was at its height of wreaking havoc on the world and I couldn’t help thinking of the families with loved ones hospitalized with the virus and not being able to be with them, or worse, having to say a final goodbye through a Zoom call. But, after his tests came back, Covid was ruled out, and we learned it was “only” pneumonia. He only stayed one night. The doc wanted to keep him for observation, but in typical Bryan form, he said, “Nope. I’m goin’ to the house. I’ve got things to do.”

They released him with antibiotics to take at home and relieved, we laughed about it over the next few days. He had trees to plant and projects to finish. We spent a lot of time at Lowe’s and Home Depot. I was happy to tag along, enjoying his DIY spirit, talking and laughing with a shared purpose: we were planting a memorial garden for our daughter, Mandy, whom we lost a few months after her 30th birthday. The one-year anniversary of her passing was coming up soon, and we were going to plant her ashes in the garden we would fill with colorful Crepe Myrtles, Dogwoods, Magnolias and shade-giving Red Oaks. Planting day arrived and the kids and grand-kids all helped. It was such a special day. Bryan was not feeling well, but he supervised and was able to lead us in our family memorial service for our precious girl. Our daughter Kristin handed each of us wildflower-seeded note cards to plant personal messages to Mandy in her garden.

Bryan’s said, “I hate goodbyes, so I’ll just say, “See ya later, Leigh Roy. I love you. Dad.”

• 

• 

• 

• 

Two weeks later, God called Bryan home to Heaven. Friday night pizza night. I’d come home late after work with his favorite pie to an uncharacteristically quiet house. No TV on, the bedroom door closed. I thought he was taking a nap. Not wanting wake him up if he was getting some much-needed rest, I watched a show and ate my pizza. Two episodes later, I got a bad feeling. Something wasn’t right. I clicked off the TV and quietly opened the door, and felt a stillness I’d never imagined before. No fan running in the corner. Just silence. Quietly whispering his name with no response, my heart quickened, my mind rebutting the panic setting in. Reaching out to gently rub his arm so I wouldn’t startle him, I knew immediately.

He was gone.

The rest of the night plays over and over in my mind as if I’d stepped into a black-and-white silent movie reel. The days tick by, a collection of interminable minutes, memories, anguish, loneliness, anger, and little-by-little, what feels like healing – or at least a sense that God is walking me through the darkness that threatens to envelop me at any given moment. I hear both of them speaking to my heart as I wake up with my hand on his empty pillow, as I fill one coffee cup and sip while I rock in the rustic log chairs that were going to be our favorite spot in our twilight years.

I will never leave you.

One foot in front of the other.

And that’s how I move forward. Holding onto the promise of God for dear life and knowing that Bryan is not only part of my past. He is part of my future. He and Mandy are with God and we will all be together again someday.

Sharing the story with my friend, Laci, she told me she learned the phrase ‘one foot in front of the other’ in Swahili while on a mission trip to Africa. We agreed it should be a slogan on a shirt. A few days later, I found a t-shirt on my desk printed with that phrase in Swahili (Mbele Kwa Mbele) and English along with the verse Philippians 3:14:

“I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us.”

No matter what road you’re on today, press on. Chin up. One foot in front of the other!