05/23/2025
Sunday Drive
I can’t believe it’s been three years since you left us for your heavenly home, Kathryn. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you.
The kids are doing GREAT! Each is well-prepared for life’s rocky journey, thanks to the tools you helped give them. I wish beyond measure you could hear from their own mouths all they’re accomplishing—they’re LIVING the goals they shared with you before you passed.
As the third anniversary of your heavenly homecoming approaches, I’ve been reflecting on the “mental snapshots” we took throughout our life together.
From our first date at Jackson Park at 14, to you visiting me in the hospital at 16 when I battled Spinal Meningitis and Lyme Disease—you brought me a coloring book, exactly what I didn’t know I needed during those lonely days that stretched into weeks and months. I cherish memories of camping with friends in Door County during college, chasing a tent across an open field when it blew away. At 20, I read you a bedtime story after your long day at work. At the end, instead of saying “they lived happily ever after,” I asked, “Would you marry me?” You woke your parents, and we celebrated at midnight.
I remember our first home, refinishing the floors and painting ourselves into a corner—forced to escape out the window, laughing at our poor planning. In our second home, I watched you, frying pan in hand, on your hands and knees, thinking you heard a mouse. Since I’m legally deaf, I couldn’t help but secretly found the scene comical. In our third home, we brought our first child home, and you sat by the fireplace, singing to Ethan.
I vividly recall each time you told me you were pregnant—where I was, how it felt. We watched the magnificent birth of each child, you holding them. With each, you became more complete; with our three, you were made whole.
So many good memories, sprinkled with a fair share of challenges, as in any good marriage. We survived.
I will never forget those last 24 hours.
Every time I hear Sunday Drive by Brett Eldredge, I think of us on Sunday, May 22nd, at 3 p.m. I whispered in your ear as you lay on the couch, “Would you like to take a drive?” You jumped up, energized by what we now know was “the final push.” You were clear-headed, smiling, and positive. Tyde and Marina helped me get you into the back seat of your baby Bronco. We played Jack & Diane on repeat as Marina drove to Ethan’s house, and Tyde tried to make you laugh.
At Ethan’s new home, you walked right up the stairs to his deck. You put your arm around him and told him how proud and happy you were for him and Emma. I’ll always wonder—did you know your time was short? Marina, Tyde, Ethan, Emma, and I stood together, talking, laughing, and loving for the very last time.
Soon after, you said you were ready for a “Dilly Bar” from Dairy Queen. I watched you revert to simpler days, like an innocent child, craving only a Dilly Bar and Jack & Diane. Marina stopped at Dairy Queen, and we laughed when they only sold them in six-packs. On the way home, you ate three, savoring them like a child tasting ice cream for the first time.
We got home around 6 p.m. that Sunday evening. Your life, though cut too short, was full. You lived on your terms. That afternoon, surrounded by the family we created, you laughed, lived, ate ice cream, and listened to your favorite song. On Monday at 6:02 p.m., you left for your heavenly home.
You showed us how to live gracefully, fully, right to the end. Thank you for that final, beautiful mental snapshot—you and me in the back seat of the Bronco, holding hands on our last Sunday Drive. Every time I hear Sunday Drive, it’s us, together.
I love and miss you. You live on in me, our kids, and, hopefully, generations to come.
It’s a good life.
https://open.spotify.com/track/2TIdEu4aruzo33MTEUDGcf?si=906ff0b487b74c60
