Wishful Thinking

I guess there are few who don’t dream of winning the lottery, and of course plan their wonderful spending spree. Technically I’m one of them as I have never bought a ticket and don’t expect to. But I can still daydream, can’t I? And I do possess an ancient £1 premium bond; the monthly first prize is at least a million so you never know… Ok I’m not holding my breath, and having been raised as a good Methodist I don’t understand gambling of any description. It’s just not me. But it’s still game on with ‘if you had the money what might you spend it on?’ And today I visited Ramsgate and enjoyed a walk around the harbour. Yes, yes, I know it’s not the South of France and theoretically with a bit of financial juggling, I suppose I could find a way to buy one of these. That’s not the game though, is it? At least not if I have to downsize my house. No, the idea is that daydreams are supposed to be just that. Out of reach. Anyway, today I played the game with my son, and no way would this older sailboat do the trick. It just happens to be headlining my photo. We both choose something rather less demanding, a boat with a big fat motor, and large enough to live comfortably as we wander over to the continent. Ah well, maybe if we lived by the coast we’d go study for whatever licence you need to drive one, and then who knows what might happen. But we don’t, it’s just a game. Except today it wasn’t. ‘Cause last time I visited this place I was with Jane, maybe a couple of years ago. And we played the daydream game then…

I’m struggling. Yesterday I woke up thinking about Jane, and her final few hours. The last goodbye, after a forty year romance. No avoiding it, it’s just how I woke up. And I meandered through the day thinking about my lovely wife, pretty much constantly. Even made myself ill at one stage, as we wandered around a Battle of Britain museum. Recent family holidays, using my motorhome and multiple tents, have involved a dozen kids and grandkids. Constant activity is nicely distracting; this week it’s just me and my adult son. Just the two of us on an out of season camping holiday is a serious reminder of the countless similar excursions I enjoyed very recently with Jane. Except it’s totally different. He’s a big bloke and very young, he likes to talk about cars and phones and stuff like that. He’s not a beautiful and very feminine woman, who enjoys political debate on a global scale. Keep your eye on the second coming of Jesus Christ and stuff like that. Then we might pray and sing a worship song together. So video entertainment has moved on from Shakespeare and The Holiday, to a rerun of The Bourne Identity and James Bond. My paper based word games have been transformed by computer tablet and smartphone. Subway filled rolls have completely subverted the more genteel visits to tea shops and the like. Garden centres are no-go areas. I enjoy my son, he’s great. But he’s not my wife. And I’m missing both her and the life we enjoyed together. I’m struggling to put my heart into the new, for sure. I want the old back. But that’s just wishful thinking.

Matthew 5:4 ‘God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted.’ (NLT)