A few years ago, I took daily walks along the winding paths of a cemetery near my Florida home. The peaceful setting helped me feel closer my dad and grandmother who had passed the previous spring – 33 heartbreaking days apart. Both were buried in faraway Indiana; far away from me. 

And it hurt.

Deeply.

There was seldom anyone there. An assortment of squirrels, bunnies and birds. Otherwise it was usually just me and my grief.

Except for Friday afternoons.

A well-dressed elderly gentleman would be there, sitting on a lawn chair facing a headstone, reading aloud from a book. A red rose and a Styrofoam cup with a straw were propped against the marker– presumably gifts for the deceased.

For a few Fridays I cordially waved as I passed by. He waved back but returned to reading.

Aloud.

In a cemetery.

Curiosity eventually got the better of me, so I introduced myself.

“How do you do Michelle? I’m Ted Henderson” he said as we shook hands.

“Who are you visiting Ted?”

“I’m spending time with my wife Margie” he smiled. “Every Friday, rain or shine.”

“Why Fridays?” I asked.

“For Margie and me, Friday evenings was date night. We’d go to supper, see a movie, play cards with the neighbors; that kind of thing. It gave us a few hours away from the kids. Later on when Margie got sick and went to a nursing home, we still had date night. It was something normal to look forward to. I’d bring her a red rose, and a chocolate shake from Winky’s. Then I’d read to her – the newspaper, books or a chapter from the Bible. Forty nine years and 2,544 Friday night dates. Just because I can’t see her anymore isn’t a reason to cancel date night. Maybe she can see and hear me. That’s why I read to her.”

“And bring her a red rose and a chocolate shake” I added.

“That’s right.”  

How beautiful.

“May I join you?” I asked.

He looked pleased.

“Sure. I’d like that.”

I sat on the grass.

“Would you tell me more about her?”

“My Margie was the prettiest girl I ever saw-big blue eyes, cheeks the color of peaches, long curly hair red as a fire truck, spunky and funny as two kittens fighting over a ball of yarn. I fell in love with her on the spot. She was crazy about me too, though I never understood why. I’m just plain old Ted.”

He chuckled.

“She passed on eleven years ago. Folks at church keep trying to fix me up with widows. I tell them no thanks. There’s only one lady for me.”

“Margie must have been very special.”

“Everyone loved Margie. She visited sick folks, knitted booties for babies, gave away most of our homegrown vegetables to the needy and taught Sunday school. Little ones were crazy about her.”

“Do you and Margie have kids?” I asked.

Ted gazed off in the distance.

“We had twin boys; Theodore Jr. and Andrew. Teddy played high school football. Andy was our scholar, quiet and smart. Both were as handsome as movie stars, but they couldn’t have been more different. It’s funny how that works. After college they enlisted in the Army. We lost them in the Vietnam War. They died seven months apart. Children aren’t supposed to go first.”

His eyes filled. 

“Please forgive me for stirring up painful memories.”

He smiled through tears.

“You didn’t. I’ve had a blessed life. And I learned long ago that there’s a reason for everything.  Like meeting you.  You asked me to tell you about my family. Hardly anyone brings them up anymore, and I get lonely for them.”

“Ted, how did you find peace after all you’ve suffered?” I asked.

“When Margie died, I was a mess, and moped around for months. Then one day I imagined what she’d say if she saw me sitting around in my PJ’s at noon, my hair like shredded wheat, needing a shower. She’d holler “Ted quit bawling and get busy!” So, I did. It was tough and there were many days when grief got the better of me. But I pushed through the pain and got on with it. Of course, I make an exception on Fridays.”

The sun was setting.

He glanced at his watch.

“Look at the time! Margie always said I talked too much.”

We laughed.

He studied my face.

“Next Friday if you’re here let’s talk about you. There’s a world of hurt in those green eyes.” 

A few stray tears trickled down my cheeks.

He patted my shoulder.

In the days that followed I thought about Ted, and his simple acceptance of the hand he’d been dealt. He believed I was led to him so he could talk about his family. Maybe I was led to Ted for the same reason.  

So, I could talk about mine.

However, the following Friday he wasn’t there. Or the Friday after that.

A few days later his obituary appeared in the newspaper.

My heart sank.

A dear man who understood the depth of my pain was gone.

Although I was a stranger to all but one, I went to Ted’s memorial service.  

What a surprise it was. Instead of a somber gathering, it was a noisy party; a celebration of life with laughing, chatting guests, big band music and a catered buffet.  

A young woman approached me and we shook hands.

“Hello. I’m Sharon, Ted’s granddaughter.”

“I’m Michelle Mills.”

Her eyes lit up.

“You’re the lady that Grandpa met at Grandma’s grave!” 

Astonished, I nodded.

“He told us how you met. That he was feeling blue, and a new friend appeared.”

 “I felt the same way” I said. “I wish we’d had more time to know one another.”

“You would have loved him. He was so kind; he’d give you the shirt off his back. Grandma told me that in World War II, his plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner. He and his men were practically starving, yet he shared his little bit of food with the others. Said they needed it more than he did. He was skin and bones when he came home. They took us in after Daddy died in Vietnam. Grandpa practically raised me.”

“A hero in every way.” I murmured.

The memory board was filled with photos of Ted in uniform, Margie with the twins, graduations, weddings and birthdays. Ted’s awards and medals including the Purple Heart were on display. His was a full life.

“After the war, Grandpa became an engineer and eventually worked for NASA. He went from airplanes to rockets.”

Plain ole’ Ted was anything but plain.

On the drive home I remembered his words.

“It was tough and there were many days when grief got the better of me. But I pushed through the pain and got on with it.”

As time passed, a parade of broken hearts journeyed through my world – one by one, each seeking what I’d learned. 

It was humbling to share my experiences with those whose grief was fresh, to help light the way for others who desperately needed hope.

As Ted would say “everything happens for a reason.”