Gone from my Sight

by Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone"

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.....

Southside City Church

Dear Mom,

I friended Darrel on Facebook today, and got to read the amazing story of how the food we had in your pantry went on to bless a family in need. I miss you so much, but I am so blessed to have had you in my life and so inspired as I see you continue to bless others even now, two weeks after you went to be with the Lord.

I love you,

Vicki

Back to real life

Dear Mom,

Tomorrow is Monday. I'm recovering from my surgery well, the kids have gone back to college, and I'm lining up my students to begin again. But I miss you, and I know that tomorrow is going to bring something I don't want to face. No you.

I won't be able to sit down with a cup of coffee and call you in the morning and see how you are feeling and what you are having for lunch and how much you did in rehab.

I won't get to tell you that Amy survived the hurricane in New York and Alex has moved into his house for school and Katie came home for the weekend.

I don't get to talk with you about plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas or what I'm writing or what I'm going to do at the upcoming writers' conference I plan to attend my birthday weekend.

I don't get to call you tomorrow. And it's just wrong.

I love you and I miss you so much,

Vicki

I'm home

Dear Mom,

I'm home. Ordinarily when I get home from a trip to see you, I'd call you and tell you I got home safely. But I can't call you. I can only think about you and how I wish I could call you and tell you I enjoyed our time together, and I enjoyed what we did and where we ate and things we did. Except we didn't.

I still hurt so deep that I can't breathe. I wish I could call and tell you.

I love you,

Vicki