It started at Starbucks this afternoon. Pumpkin Spice is back on the menu. Amy’s signature drink: Grande, 2 pump Pumpkin Spice, 2 pump White Mocha, 2 pump Cinamon Dulce Latte. I ordered one. My heart had been in a numb funk all day. I thought the memory and the taste would perk things up; that is not what happened.

We’d gone to the Disney Store at the Outlets in Woodburn, Oregon because the boys had some money to burn. We looked around. I found a few things I couldn’t live without. Neither boy spent his money. We all smiled at the “Incredible Mom” cup and T-shirt. I thought of purchasing the cup for one of the “moms” who’s adopted my boys into her heart, but I couldn’t do it. Amy was my Mrs. Incredible. She could stretch to do so many things at once. I was the stressed out, stay-at-home dad (only 1 summer), who drove a small hatchback car when the first movie was released. My students swore Disney captured my story – taking a few creative liberties – and made a movie franchise! I put the cup back; I just couldn’t buy it. We left the store, purchased our Auntie Ann’s pretzels (a Woodburn Outlet tradition), and headed to find drinks. I dropped the boys off at Jamba Juice and headed to Starbucks.

Upon receiving my drink, I headed back to pick up the boys. From the moment they hopped in the car, the tenor of our day slid south. We couldn’t really figure out why. Everyone was just a little jumpy, nervous, irritable. Due to an accident ahead of us on the route home, our 30 min. drive became an hour and 20 mins. Needless to say, by the time we arrived home, we were needing some dinner and some alone time.

As the boys were getting ready for bed, I began busying myself with the chores of the house. I found myself checking the clock many times, but not really knowing why. Somewhere around 9:30 p.m., I realized what was wrong.

Today is Labor Day. Tomorrow is Tuesday, the beginning of my second week of school. Two years ago on Labor Day, I put a very nauseous Amy to bed, fed my kids dinner, and then busied myself about the house. When I woke in the morning, “Till death do us part” had become a reality.

I’ve spent the last hour hemming and hawing about the things that need to be done before tomorrow then chastising myself for worrying and picking up the fear God delivered me from six weeks before Amy passed away. It’s been a vicious cycle. The only way I know to break it is to admit that I’m in the crosshairs of fear, pray, ask God for peace, and then head to bed. Tomorrow will be another day. The actual anniversary of Amy’s death is Thursday; I’ve taken the day off work so I can deal with it for what it will be, and so that my students do not have to endure a numb, slightly frustrated teacher all day.

So, good night. I’m letting go of the fear so that God can take care of it for me. I pray I can fall asleep quickly and that my dreams are peaceful. Tomorrow is not a day to fear.