After we were married, Kelly unloaded the dishwasher one day and put all the glasses away with the openings facing up. I noticed it immediately and said, “Haven’t you seen that I always put the glasses face down?” He smiled that gentle, knowing smile of his and replied, “I see you’ve noticed that I don’t.” That moment still makes me smile. It was such a perfect picture of us, two people who loved each other deeply, even when we did things differently.
We had other little differences too. One of them involved
something as simple as eggs. I always emptied the carton from one side, working
my way across. But Kelly liked to take eggs from both sides to keep the carton
balanced. It used to bother me, and I’d quietly rearrange them the way I
preferred.
Funny how time softens things.
Now that Kelly has passed away, I find myself doing it his
way. I take eggs from both sides, just like he did. And instead of feeling
annoyed, I smile. These tiny habits, once insignificant, have become tender
reminders of the man I loved.
None of these things ever caused contention. They were just
small differences in the rhythm of our life together. I might have grumbled
inwardly, but I’d simply change it and move on. Now, I wouldn’t change it for
anything.
Grief has a way of turning the ordinary into something
sacred. A cupboard of glasses, some face up, some face down. An egg carton
emptied from both sides. These simple moments have become gentle echoes of a
life shared, a love lived, and a companion dearly missed.
And in these quiet reminders, I feel both Kelly’s love and
the Lord’s tender mercy, teaching me that love endures in the smallest, most
unexpected places.
Real love doesn’t require sameness. It simply makes space. These everyday actions become symbols of a life shared and hearts still connected.













