"Breathe in slowly, deep breath, fill your lungs... hold... breathe out slowly counting one, two, three, four, five... "

The sunlight fills the studio as we lay on our yoga mats. We are supposed to close our eyes as we listen to the instructor's voice, but my eyes are wide open. I can see the green trees outside, swaying gently as its leaves are caressed by the breeze.

"Focus on your breath... relax your shoulders...." 

I sigh, loudly, involuntarily, realizing I've been holding my breath. My body is still on the outside but inside there is a constant tossing and tuning. Did I count to five? I'm holding my breath again.

"Take another deep breath in... if your mind wanders, gently bring it back to your breath counting to five..."

My mind wanders. Under the gentle sound of everyone's inhalations and exhalations, my mind wrestles. I must buy a headstone for my husband's grave. 

"Let all the air out through your nose letting go of any tension..."

What do I write on that headstone? How can a piece of granite with a few words scribbled on it express what Jason means to me and to our daughters? What he meant to our families, to our friends, to the boys he counselled, and to the people he prayed with, and to those he worked with, and to the strangers that chose to put their faith in his God when he preached and shared about his own journey with Christ?

What words could I chose that would be able to convey the life of a man that was larger than life? 

"As you take another deep breath in, set your intention for the day..."

Today I must call the cemetery and find out what kind of headstone I must buy for my husband's grave. 

I must buy a headstone. 

I must choose the words that will be written on it. 

But I have not the courage to do so.

I take a deep breath, forgetting to count to five, and I ask my God for the grace to do what I wish with all my heart I would never have to.  

I sigh out loud once again. And suddenly I remember the tiny little hyphen that must go between the day when Jason took his first breath and the day he exhaled his last breath. That tiny little hyphen is like a peephole - it hides the story of an extraordinary, expansive, incomparable life of which I am a huge part of. 

Right then, I decided that whatever is written on his headstone, one thing is for sure, it will not be 'HERE LIES', for even though that was where his body was buried, that is not where he is. 

And my wandering mind settles on the deep knowledge that when I breathe my last breath, I will see him again.

Tatiana HotereComment