The Christmas Dream

Last Christmas was my “first” without Charlie. I felt the void of my husband’s absence—an ache deep in my soul that could not be denied.  My family wouldn’t be sharing a meal till later that evening, so overwhelmed, I laid down to seek the solace of sleep. At one of the most heart-wrenching moments of my journey, I cried out to God to be near and to bring me comfort. No longer able to hold back the floodgate of my tears, I cried myself to sleep.

The next thing I knew, I was standing on an old-fashioned white porch. A stone’s throw away was a beautiful shoreline, the water clear and shallow,  while in the distance were varying shades of blue, revealing the ever-deepening ocean. And right beside me, sitting on a double swing, was Charlie.

Smiling warmly, he held out his hand and said, “Come here.” Quickly, I climbed up onto the swing, Charlie’s strong arms wrapping around me. We sat together, my head on his shoulder, the swing gently rocking back and forth. Drinking in the incredible view, we listened to the sound of the waves crashing and the seagulls calling out to one another.

We talked for a while, and I remember telling him how much I missed him. I must have asked if he missed me too, because he said, “Well, in heaven there’s no missing because there’s no sadness. But there’s great anticipation—I can’t wait to show you everything.”

I have no idea how long we sat there, snuggled closely. As we watched the waves, breathing in the salty air and feeling the cool breeze, it was profoundly peaceful.

Then I was awake. But, rather than feeling bereft because my husband wasn’t with me, there was a quiet, joyful reassurance that Charlie was beyond “ok,” he was fabulous! Before I forgot one thing, I grabbed my journal and pen, recording every nuance I could recall.

Everything about the setting was perfect. Charlie and I grew up on opposite coasts, but with a mutual love for the ocean. For years we’d admired older homes with porches and had always felt a double swing was an absolute necessity. On top of that, we both loved the idea of one day renting a little beach cottage that wasn’t too far from the shore. It was as if our dream had finally come true, yet in a way, I would never have thought possible.

As I was journaling, I realized Charlie had looked far younger than his sixty-three years. He appeared to be perhaps thirty, yet with a full head of hair. (Charlie started losing his hair in his twenties.) His back was as straight as a teenager’s, and he seemed so strong—so much more alive.

But the most significant change was his countenance. He was utterly relaxed, with a quiet joy that was obvious. There was such an ease about him—a contentment and a peacefulness that at times had eluded him.

I can’t explain the dream, nor will I try to. I do have the sense that it was, indeed, my husband. The whole experience left me comforted and gave me a strength that would help me walk through the coming months. There were certainly still tears—there still are. I don’t believe the sadness will ever leave altogether. My best friend isn’t with me, and a void remains that no one else can fill.

However, the grief that remains is somehow “cleaner.” Although I was confident he was in heaven, the dream reassured and comforted me even more, keeping me from any sense of grieving for my husband. What a mistake that would be—what a waste of emotion. Charlie is in heaven, which is a million times better than here!

Instead, I allow myself the gift of tears. When the feelings hit, often coming at a time I least expect it, I let them fall, and take time to remember. It doesn’t mean I stay in bed for days on end, but it’s more than ok to release the sorrow—it’s necessary. It honors the years we shared and our love for each other. It also helps to free me to move forward. I often say, “there is purpose in the pain.” Even healing.

Slowly, day by day, I’m learning to turn to the Lord for whatever I need. For strength and courage, and the “togetherness” I miss so much. Someday, I will see my beloved husband again. That brings me the most profound comfort of all.

Thank You, Father God. Last Christmas, I never anticipated receiving a gift from Charlie. Or even from You, for that matter. I will never cease being grateful for allowing Charlie, himself, to be the present! Not just to be with me for a short while, but to even be beside the sea—our favorite place.

If you’ve lost a loved one and are grieving, I pray these words bring a measure of comfort and peace and call your heart to the One who longs to hold you close.

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