Profoundly Changed
Moving forward with love…
The Garden We Began Together
We spend so much of our lives anticipating extraordinary moments, never realizing that the ordinary ones are the very moments we will someday long to have back. I've thought about that a great deal since Bob moved to Heaven.
When I remember our nearly forty years together, I certainly remember the milestones. Our wedding, the birth of our children, family vacations, anniversaries, and celebrations. But increasingly, it's the ordinary moments I find myself wishing I could experience again.
The conversations that didn't seem particularly important. The plans we made without considering that we might not have the opportunity to carry them out. The familiar routines of sharing a home and building a life together.
Sometimes, those ordinary moments leave behind something extraordinary.
For me, one of those things is a garden.
It Began with Two Apple Trees
In the early fall of 2020, Bob and I ordered two yellow transparent (June) apple trees.
There was nothing particularly remarkable about the decision. I wanted to make apple pies like my grandmother used to make, and we had finally figured out that the "June" apple tree at the barn was actually called yellow transparent. We had already decided where we would plant the trees when they arrived. It was simply another project for our yard.
Gardening had always been something I loved. I tended the flowers and garden beds while Bob took care of the mowing and trimming. We had our own responsibilities, but we worked together to care for the home we shared.
Ordering those apple trees was just one more thing we planned to do together. But Bob moved to Heaven that October. And somewhere in the overwhelming days and months that followed, I forgot about the trees.
When they arrived the following spring, I was completely unprepared. There they were—two little apple trees that Bob and I had ordered together, reminders of a future we had expected to share.
I remember feeling overwhelmed. Something that should have been such a simple pleasure had suddenly become another reminder of everything that had changed. I had ordered those trees because I wanted to make pies like my grandmother had made. Now I was holding something Bob and I had planned together, knowing he would never be there to help me plant them.
Planting What We Had Planned
I could have planted those trees somewhere else. I could have put the project aside. But I decided to plant them exactly where Bob and I had planned.
I don't think I understood at the time what that decision would eventually mean. I was simply following through on something we had begun together.
With a lot of help from David digging up the grass and preparing the ground, those two trees (along with some roses, of course) became the beginning of a memorial garden along the back of our property. What started as a small planting gradually grew. I added flowers, plants, and other touches, and over time the garden expanded until it stretched across the entire back of the yard.
But the garden was becoming more than a place to remember Bob. Without fully realizing it, I was bringing together pieces of our family's history.
The Peonies from My Grandparents' Farm
Among the flowers now growing in the memorial garden are peonies that originally came from my grandparents' horse farm. I had transplanted them years earlier into another garden at our home. When I began creating the memorial garden, I decided to move them again.
I love the thought that those flowers have traveled with me through different seasons of my life. They connect me to my grandparents, to memories of their farm, and to a part of my life that existed long before I met Bob. And now they grow in a garden that honors him.
The apple trees connect me to my grandmother, too. After all, it was my memory of her pies that prompted us to order them in the first place. I had simply wanted to make pies like hers.
I never imagined that the trees would become part of something so meaningful. As I look at the garden now, I see connections between generations. My grandparents' flowers. My grandmother's apple pies. The trees Bob and I chose together.
Memories that once belonged to different places and different times now grow alongside one another.
And then there was another discovery I never expected.
A Reminder of the Man Bob Was
As I worked on the memorial garden, I discovered the marker for our dog Buddy, a beautiful Border Collie, who had died in 2012.
I hadn't realized that the place where our dog was buried would become part of Bob's memorial garden all those years later. But what makes that discovery so special to me is the memory of what Bob did when we lost that beloved pet. He built a coffin for our dog, working alongside our son and son-in-law.
That was Bob. He understood that our pets were part of our family, and he treated their loss with the same thoughtfulness and care that characterized so much of his life.
It would have been easy to overlook the significance of that gesture. At the time, it was simply something Bob did because he loved his family and understood what mattered to us. But years later, finding that marker brought the memory back.
I could picture the three of them working together to build that little coffin. And I was reminded, once again, of the man I had been blessed to call my husband.
What an unexpected connection. The garden I was creating to honor Bob had grown around a place where he had already demonstrated the very love and tenderness I wanted to remember. I couldn't have planned that.
A Garden Filled with Generations of Love
When we began planting those apple trees, I wasn't thinking about creating a place that would connect so many generations of our family. I was thinking about Bob. I was thinking about a project we had planned together and how difficult it was to carry it out without him. (Thanks to our son for his help and support.)
But as the garden grew, so did its meaning. The peonies remind me of my grandparents and the farm that was part of my childhood. The apple trees remind me of my grandmother's pies and the simple plans Bob and I made for our future. The marker for our dog reminds me of Bob's tenderness and of a moment he shared with our son and son-in-law.
And the garden itself reminds me of the countless ordinary afternoons Bob and I spent caring for our yard together. I tended the flowers. He mowed and trimmed. We were simply living our lives.
I had no idea how precious those ordinary afternoons would someday become.
Now, when I work in the garden, I am surrounded by reminders of people and moments that helped shape my life. Some memories bring smiles. Others bring tears. Often, they bring both. But I wouldn't trade those memories to avoid the sadness that sometimes accompanies them. They are part of my story. They are part of the love that has shaped me.
What Continues to Grow
I sometimes wonder what Bob would think if he could see how far the garden has expanded. What began with two apple trees now stretches across the entire back of our property.
I imagine he would recognize my tendency to turn a small project into something much bigger. After all, he affectionately called me his Energizer Bunny and reminded me with every project, "One project at time, Suz."
And I wish he were here to see it. I wish we could stand together in the yard, looking at what has grown from those two little trees we ordered. I wish I could tell him about moving the peonies, discovering our dog's marker, and all the things I've added along the way.
But perhaps what matters most is that I can still remember how it all began. It began with a husband and wife making an ordinary plan for their yard. It began with a memory of a grandmother's apple pies. It began with two trees that were supposed to be planted together.
And when life changed in ways I never could have imagined, I planted them anyway.
Moving Forward with Love…
I've come to believe that moving forward doesn't mean leaving behind the life we shared with someone we love. Sometimes it means continuing something we began together. Sometimes it means finding new meaning in familiar places. And sometimes it means discovering that the love we've known has left traces in places we never expected to find them.
The garden didn't erase my grief. It didn't make me miss Bob any less. But it has given me a place where memories of our life together can exist alongside the memories of those who came before us. A place where the past and present meet. A place where love continues to grow.
I thought I was planting two apple trees. I didn't know I was beginning a garden that would hold generations of love.
And perhaps that is one of the most extraordinary things about ordinary moments. We rarely recognize their significance while we're living them.
Sometimes it takes years—and sometimes it takes loss—to understand just how much love they held.
Bob and I began this garden together. And every time I tend it, I carry a little more of our story forward.
Moving forward with love…
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