The Treasure of the Last Night

The Treasure of the 

Last Night

      One year ago tonight I didn’t know it would be my last night as a husband. Husband. One of the most honorable titles in the world. I LOVED being a husband. It was my favorite thing to be in the entire world. Only one person could call me that title. Only one person could be my best friend, my lover, my helpmate. I loved taking care of Tiff, providing for her, praying for her, treasuring her. I never in all my days thoughts there would come a time when I was no longer a husband. It still startles me to this day. I knew in those last few weeks that I would trade titles from husband to widower, one of the most unfair exchanges in all the world.

      If I had known, maybe I would have tried to hold time still—pressed pause on every moment, memorized every glance, every smile, every breath. I would have counted her breaths, romanticized her extra, made her laugh a little more. But God, in His mercy, didn’t let me know. Instead, He gave us a night wrapped in simple grace.  Mexican take-out spread across a hospital tray (hospital tables were common for multiple dates those last few days). I remember when Tiff was first diagnosed in the York Hospital. She had a colonoscopy and found out how aggressive her cancer was. That night she wanted Cracker Barrel. I played beach music in the background. We LOVED the beach. I sang to her off key, which is the only way she knew how to sing. She was so happy eating her chicken and dumplings. Sadly that night she got sick to her stomach and I had to clean the throw up out of her hair. That was also the first night that I shaved her legs. Flash forward ten months later and we were in a different hospital watching Christmas movies and the woman I loved leaning back with a strength that felt, for a moment, like it might be returning. She seemed so full of life that night. She was extra happy because earlier that day my brother-in-law’s had delivered the Christmas tree that she had worked on so tirelessly the weeks prior. I’m pretty confident she was the only person with a Christmas tree in her room. The glow of the Christmas tree filled the room that night. It brought her so much joy.

      It wasn’t a dramatic night. There were no profound, cinematic speeches, which for some have you reading might sound odd because you know that I love giving big long speeches lol. Just the warmth of food, the glow of Christmas lights, the comfort of being together. But looking back, it was holy. A gift wrapped in the ordinary. A treasure of the unknown.

      Scripture says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). I didn’t know I was numbering the last day of our life together, and if I did I didn’t like the lesson being taught at the time. I didn’t know those small things—the salsa she liked, the way she adores Hallmark Christmas movies with the same plot. I believe the movie that night was  rich woman from the city falling in love with a guy who had a Christmas tree farm. Those memories would become treasures I’d hold like pearls.

      That night, I was still her husband in every sense. Still the man who could comfort her, reach for her hand, plan for tomorrow. But tomorrow never came the way we expected. “Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring” (Proverbs 27:1). I lived that verse in real time, a verse that I’m still living out knowing the brevity of time.

      When the next day arrived and she slipped into eternity, the shock came like a tidal wave. But even in that wave, there was an anchor—those final memories God had gently placed in my hands. I didn’t know He was preparing me, but He was. He was faithful all along,  never leaving or forsaking us. 

     The grief is real. The sadness is deep. Yet so is the hope. Those two things don’t contradict one another. One is not light the other dark. They are perfectly married. Hope does not cancel grief nor does grief cancel hope. They can hold hands in perfect union. 

      “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

I’ve learned that closeness in ways I never wanted to, ways in which the Lord had to practically drag me to but ways I now cherish. God didn’t shield me from loss, but He walked into it with me. And He keeps walking with me still one year later. 365 days since that last night. 

      If you’re reading this and your ordinary moments feel forgettable, let me offer this: Treasure them. Treasure the meals, the laughter, the quiet evenings, the small rituals that seem unimportant. You may not realize it now, but these are the threads that will hold your heart together when life unravels. Please, from a widower, don’t take the average, mundane, daily, or boring for granted. Cherish it, because one day you will miss it. Make each moment count. Don’t miss a kiss, don’t forget to save I you, be intimate with your spouse, send them a flirty text, pray with them…because one day those things will be gone. 

      I didn’t know it was my last night as her husband. Now I have to check boxes where my relationship status is legally widower. But I know now that God gave me a gift that evening—a peaceful pause before the storm, a table of simple food and shared love, a night I will carry for the rest of my life. And even in the ache, hope remains—because love doesn’t end where breath does.

“We do not grieve as those who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). My hope is anchored in the reality that she is with the Lord, and one day, all the broken pieces will be made whole again.

      Until then, I carry the treasure of that last night— a reminder to hold close the people I love, to savor every day, and to live with a heart that knows just how precious time really is. Until then I will love deeper because grief has dug a huge hole in my heart. I will be a good husband again. I will be romantic, lead spiritually, love deeply, hold hands without end, snuggle, and enjoy each simple moment till Jesus comes or I go to be with Him. I will enter the arena soon to be a good husband for the second time and treasure each moment like it could be my last.