After sixty years of marriage, my husband Don and I had developed our own particular shorthand methods of communication. Kids these days text message… Don and I wrote each other little notes. For example, if I went out grocery shopping, I’d usually return to find a little scrap of paper taped up somewhere by the front door. “Upstairs, sleeping. Please wake me,” the note might say. “Love, Don.” At the top of the note, there would always be a little arrow pointing up, as if I might forget which direction upstairs was.
“Don! I’m home!” I’d yell up. A few minutes later, he’d shuffle down to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “Hi Virge,” he’d say. “Let me help you put those away.” We’d unpack the groceries and his little notes would go out to the trash with the empty bags.
Then one night, I woke up and found Don’s side of the bed empty. No note to say where he was. I went downstairs… and found him collapsed on the kitchen floor.
The ambulance rushed Don to the hospital. But his condition worsened. In the days that followed, pneumonia set in. I had a few last precious moments with Don to say goodbye. Then he was gone.
The day of Don’s memorial service, I paced the front hall of the house in a daze waiting for my sons to pick me up and drive me to the church. I couldn’t comprehend the fact that Don was really gone. Will I ever see him again, Lord?
I stopped pacing. Something on the floor by the stairs caught my eye. I bent over and picked it up.
It was a scrap of paper. Nothing written on it, save for one thing. At the top was a simple arrow, scrawled in a familiar hand… pointing up.
I didn’t need to wonder where Don was. He was home.
