Yesterday at breakfast Linnea asked me, “Are you thinking about Papa?”

I answered, “Every minute.”

His face and influence fill my mind. Reminders of him are everywhere, and even though they are bittersweet, I’m thankful for them.

This afternoon when I was in the bathroom, I thought I heard Nate’s voice in the living room. For that split second, he was back. When I realized the voice belonged to Hans, I was yanked again to the nauseating reality of his permanent absence, and it hurt. I was glad for that instant when life was as it had been.

Nate was a man who enjoyed a regular routine. He would leave the office at the same moment every afternoon, climb on the same train and drive from the station to our house within a minute or two of the same time every evening.

He also delighted in the same bedtime routine each night, and part of his routine for himself was doing something for me. Knowing I liked to have water at my bedside, he’d fill a big glass and set it on my night stand. When I saw him walking toward the bedroom with that glass, I’d always say, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can get it.”

But he’d always respond, “I want to do it.”

After we learned of his cancer, he continued the water glass ritual. Our bedroom at the cottage was upstairs, and that 14 step climb became more and more difficult for him. Even after he should have been holding tightly to the railing, he used that hand to carry up my water instead.

Nate began his bedtime routine earlier and earlier as the cancer wore him out. I would climb on the bed with him each evening to read emails, blog comments and greeting cards until he fell asleep. Then I’d go back downstairs to continue working. When I’d finally be ready for bed, I’d step quietly into our dark bedroom and head for my night stand, carefully feeling for the water glass. Without fail, it was always there.

I remember so well the night I came into the room well after midnight, hearing Nate’s deep breathing. I felt for my water glass, but it wasn’t there for the first time in literally years. That jolted me.

The next morning I made a point of thanking him for being so kind in always bringing the water to my bedside, explaining how I felt for it in the dark each night. When it was always there, I told him, my thought was, “He’s faithful.” I didn’t mention  the glass hadn’t been there the night before. It was the beginning of the end for that part of Nate’s routine. Increased pain and intense fatigue were responsible.

When he could no longer do it, I tried to remember to do it myself but never could. Just as I was climbing into bed I’d think, “Oh. The water,” and head back to the kitchen for a glass. Last night was the first time I remembered to get the water before actually going to the bedroom. When I’d been forgetting the water, it was a sweet reminder of Nate’s faithful care, because as I headed back to the kitchen to get it, I thought fondly of him. But remembering the water was a mini-forgetting of Nate, and sadness ran through me when I realized it.

And I guess this is how it will go. Remembering, forgetting, remembering, forgetting.

“[I] give thanks to God always for you, making mention of you in [my] prayers, constantly bearing in mind your work of faith and labor of love.” (1 Thessalonians 1:2-3)

”I will remember… in the night. I will meditate with my heart, and my spirit ponders.” (Psalm 77:6)