Becoming One

Photo taken by Tabea Gutschmidt outside our home on Hwy. 40, Terre Haute, IN

Opening the linen closet door, I looked at the towels and said, “I can use a blue towel now.” Those had hung on the towel rack for Bill’s use, but no more. With Bill’s death on March 7, 2024, changes are in small increments and often subtle and insignificant within the larger picture.

No longer is Bill on the other side of our queen-size bed or traveling in the passenger side of our car while I drive to church and errands. His chair in our study is empty, and his computer not in use. No longer is he pointing to our clock on the wall to alert me when it’s time for a meal. In church I sit in the third seat from the aisle where Bill sat, leaving two seats for Becky and Paul. At first I occupied his seat at the table, but that felt abnormal, so I moved to my position.

I busy myself going through Bill’s things, distributing them to either family or bagging up his clothes to donate to a local mission. Even the dress clothes will be used by men going for job interviews. Interestingly enough, most family members were more interested in what they can use. One grandson wanted his grandpa’s plastic shirt stays. I like that. Two grandsons-in-law chose several ties, but there are plenty more. Since our first son has the same name as his dad and same initials, his choices seemed appropriate. When my father died, each of us children wanted one of his handkerchiefs as a memento.

While listening to Bill’s podcast episode during breakfast, his photo is on my phone and yet I’m not sad. I’m glad we decided to continue his sermons on Words of Endearment with Bill Coker, thankful that our tech guys thought of recording a brief announcement about Bill’s death and our intention to proceed ahead.

Strangely enough, I’ve had few tears, and I’ve not concentrated on any regrets or shame. Most moist eyes have come when people relate how Bill has influenced their lives. Those thoughts have been verballing expressed and written in the vast number of cards received. It’s touching to receive remembrances from student grads at d’Iberville High School in Mississippi where Bill taught the first two years we were married as he pastored North Biloxi United Methodist Church on the Gulf coast.

Yes, there is loss for me and I think of that when people say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” In another sense, Bill is not lost. I know where he is, and one day I’ll join him. But for now I don’t have to go find him like a “lost object.” He is with his Savior and Lord, rejoicing.