A father gave this counsel to his married daughter on the first anniversary of her mother’s death:

“I had forty wonderful years with your Mom,” he said, “the best years of my life. But that part of my life is over. Finished!”

“But Dad …” “No buts, listen to me.” His clear blue eyes stared intensely into mine. I couldn’t turn away from him as much as I wanted to. “They were the best years of my life,” he repeated. “Your mother is no longer with me; this truth has to be faced. But I am alive and must live the time allotted me until she and I are together again.” His voice trembled, but it was not uncertain. “She is gone, but no one can take away the wonderful memories. They are part of me, the happy memories and the sad ones. But only a part. I can’t let them possess me or I couldn’t get through my days. Every day is a gift from God. It must be lived with joy. It is just a taste of the joy to come when we will all be together again.”

I kissed him then, not realizing that our conversation would one day be one of my fondest memories. Recalling that day has always been a great strength to me, particularly today—the first anniversary of my dear father’s death. [Cited in Home Living, May 1980.]