There’s no future in two little words I’m trying to put behind me

Three years ago Evelyn and I decided to join friends on a tour to Israel and Jordan.

The day before we were to depart, as I was completing packing, I went to retrieve our passports from the file where we always kept them.

Evelyn’s passport was there. Mine was not.

Luke Littlefield (Unsplash) photo

In a panic, I searched through every folder, every piece of paper in the drawer. I rummaged through adjacent drawers in the file cabinet. I pawed through every compartment and corner in the dresser where I keep my clothes. I moved to the drawers in the living room and a desk in the back bedroom. I looked every place that passport could be and many places I knew it wasn’t.

I checked all the sources for getting a replacement quickly, but it was impossible to accomplish in 12 or 18 hours. Finally, I called the leader of the group and told him we wouldn’t be joining him.

We sat silently in the living room all afternoon, stunned, staring into the distance. It was as if someone close had died. That evening we were eating a sad little supper when my son and his wife called to wish us bon voyage. When we told them the news, they were almost as devastated as we were.

Rabbit hole

The next day our daughter-in-law texted to say she couldn’t stop thinking about us. She and my son loved to travel and had enjoyed many remarkable trips all over the world. She couldn’t imagine canceling one of them at the very last minute.

“If only I had checked on the passport a few days earlier,” I texted back. “I could have driven to Detroit, waited in line, and gotten a replacement.”

“But there’s no future in going down the ‘if only’ rabbit hole,” she replied.

There’s no future in going down the ‘if only’ rabbit hole.

I’ll never forget that text exchange. Partly because of how much I appreciated our daughter-in-law’s loving concern and sympathy. Largely because her advice has resurfaced in my mind more than once since then.

Evelyn was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s nine months later. (She surely was showing symptoms then, but I was in denial.) In the years since, I’ve reminded myself more than once to squelch the tendency to indulge “if only.”

Panera visit

I remember an early-morning stop for coffee and a bagel and the weekend newspaper one Saturday at a Panera restaurant nearby. I never eat out by myself, but I had an 8:00 a.m. doctor’s appointment, so while I was out I decided to stay out a little longer.

Across the restaurant sat a couple talking, smiling, starting their day or perhaps planning their weekend. They were gray-haired, fit, and well dressed.

Jessica Lewis (Unsplash) photo

Evelyn would never be up and ready this early for a coffee shop visit, I thought. If we did go, we’d likely sit in silence across from each other. Once I’d commented on the weather and the color of the counter tops, after I asked if her coffee was hot enough and whether she needed another napkin, we’d have nothing to talk about. Neither ideas nor insights nor anticipated plans are part of our daily conversations these days. Evelyn just doesn’t have the capacity for them.

All that flashed through my mind in an instant. But quickly I returned to my paper and tried not to linger on “if only.”

Daily discipline

June 2017, with our six-months-old grandson.

I must exercise that discipline almost every week. Facebook memories pop up, showing photos of my bright-eyed wife enjoying friends or delighted with our growing grandson. I throw away unopened brochures advertising cruises and tours. I pay little attention to the upcoming symphony concert schedule. I learn about other couples’ trips to Michigan or a farmer’s market or a baseball game, and I try to let today’s list of to-dos push away “if only.”

Decades ago, Bill and Gloria Gaither recorded a song with a message I try to remember: “Yesterday’s gone/And tomorrow may never come/But we have this moment today.”

The hedonist might advise, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may die.” I’m not advocating that, but I can relate to a more succinct and less self-centered version, “Seize the day.”

Best of all is the psalmist’s healthier decision: “This is the day the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.”

Good enough

I try. This summer I’m often able to make time for a brisk walk alone in the cool of the morning. Many days Evelyn’s glad to take a shorter stroll with me outside in the magic hour just before dusk. Alone I thank God for the beauty in nature surrounding me. With Evelyn, I comment on the neighbors’ flowers and the color of the sky. We pass one large yard where a rabbit often skitters away from us into the bushes.

I love my container garden (above). I relish conversations with friends. I’m glad for the chance to write or edit. I’m learning to feel satisfied by a pretty-good dinner, a straightened closet, or an empty laundry hamper.

We have these moments. They are good. Good enough, in fact, when I can remember to forget “if only.”