My husband, George, and I had been married 44 years. Together we raised three children. George worked in industrial lighting all his professional life. He retired early and we traveled and enjoyed life; mostly, we enjoyed each other.
Then George was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Like that, the light of my life was gone.
A year later, I faced my first Christmas without George. One day, while sorting through some old photographs, I came across one I hadn’t seen in ages.
It was a family snapshot. Kim, David and Kelly were little then. It was hard to believe that they were ever that young! Yet it also seemed like only yesterday. Now they were all grown, moved out and had families of their own. I missed them almost as much as I missed my husband.
I looked at myself in the picture. I had a smile on my face, one I realized I hadn’t seen in the mirror in a long time. I’m going to keep this out where I can see it, I decided.
Then an idea came to me. The kids would love to have this photograph too. I’d get some 8 x 10 prints made and give each of my children one. When I took the snapshot in to get processed, I bought a lovely silver frame for the print that would be mine.
The afternoon I picked the prints up, I took one and put it into the frame I had bought. I found the perfect spot for it in my living room on the side table under a lamp.
But when I stood back and looked at it, a wave of sadness crashed over me. “Oh, Honey, look at us,” I said out loud. “How young we were…. Just look at the kids.”
No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than the lamp turned on. By itself! It stayed lit for three or four seconds before it went off again. Just like that. I checked the switch. Nothing amiss.
Then I realized: A power greater than my grief was saying that my husband would always be with me. All I had to do was flick on the light that hung over that picture.
It made sense. After all, lighting was his business.
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