Oddly enough, I dreamt about Becky last night. I don't remember the details, but the thought of it is pleasant. I was reminded of one of my favorite songs from the 70s called "Time Passages."
Its theme is how nostalgia sneaks up on you when you least expect it. It grabs you when it's dark and cold and you're all alone. There's a part of ourselves that continually travels back to the past and tries to justify itself by rationalizing that we have something valuable to learn from the past. Of course, the past is never quite the same when you revisit it. Not to mention the fact that you never want to spend your life looking into the rear view mirror. The truth is, the past never goes anywhere. It remains a part of the present. What we left behind is part of our self, who we once used to be. Hence the singer retreats into memory, fantasizing about what he left behind, what was not entirely realized. He remembers the girl he "once used to know." But try as he may, he can't grasp her. "You reach out your hand, but you're all alone." She's gone forever. "Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight" is his way of saying that although he knows he has to return to his real life, he still wants to linger in his nostalgic past for a while. Finally, after the past has been revisited, he returns to reality, empowered by his new recollections.
People who experience the loss of a spouse experience never-ending pain. They'd rather forget the past and the things associated with that event. Pain, however, has its useful side. It shows us that we still have the ability to feel. It's then that we remember why the pain is so great -- it demonstrates the supreme value and worth of what was lost. We realize that whatever the future holds for us, it will always include the pain (and joys) of the past with it. This backward look is the sign of a healthy soul. Nostalgia doesn't have to be morbid or fatalistic. It's not something to avoid but to embrace. It gives us an opportunity to take fresh inventory of our lives and determine new directions. It makes our tragedies look smaller and God's grace look bigger. So we must be willing to see the value in nostalgia and to receive it as a gift from God.
When Becky died, I lost the world I loved, but God replaced it with another world that I also love. Her death then helped me to clarify my purpose in life now. My dream last night didn't give me an answer to the question of why her death occurred. It did not erase my grief or sorrow. But it did give me a measure of peace. The same God who was with me as a married man is with me as a single man. He was there to welcome Becky into heaven, and he is here to walk with me before he too calls me home.