On Friday, July 25 I would have been married for 33 years. I write this because I want all the sympathy everyone has to offer, much like someone posting a vague book update or a hospital selfie with a caption that reads, “Please don’t ask, just prayers.” 

Actually, I’m writing this because I cannot believe that I am old enough for it to be plausible that I could have been married for over 30 years.  My wedding was lovely and beautiful and sentimental, even though neither one of our parental units wanted the wedding to happen. Understandable considering I was 18 and Peter was 21. Babies in the land of the Last Frontier.  

When I was married, Peter often displayed ungodly acts of compassion and courage. But he never talked about said acts. One night (before cell phones) Peter came walking through our front door with a spare pair of jeans, that had been left in our car, around his neck, each leg of the jeans tucked into each other like a fine wool scarf.  It was December in Alaska and frigid. As I heard him walk through the door. I glanced at the clock, fodder for the fight I was about to start with him. The red digital numbers read 11:32PM. That was all I needed to flip a switch and commence the battle. Until I looked at his face. It was bright red. The blue of the jeans paled in comparison to the ruddy color of his cheeks. His thick, gold-rimmed glasses sitting low on his nose, still fogged from the heat of our apartment. He put his hands up as if to beg me to stop before I started. I took a deep breath and gently asked “Where have you been?”  

Still slightly out of breath, he casually explained to me that he drove two guys to Wasilla from Anchorage. I asked him why he did this. He told me a detailed story. Two guys were trapped in Anchorage. Their car broke down and had two flat tires on Old Seward.  These two guys lived in Wasilla and didn’t know how to change a flat. My lovely husband chose to fix one flat. Then, he drove them around town looking for a shop that could patch the other. When they returned to the car, with the fixed flats, the car wouldn’t start. There they were two strangers and my husband struggling to get this car started. So, my husband, having AAA, used our AAA to get their vehicle towed back to Wasilla. But alias, the two men didn’t have any way to get back to Wasilla themselves. Without question, my darling drove the 40-something miles to Wasilla to ensure that these 2 strangers made it home safely. 

This is just one of the numerous times that Peter had to stop me from being angry at him for some heroic act or great feat of strength. When he was alive, I never appreciated his courage. I was usually pissed at him for taking time out of our lives for strangers. After he died, my world view changed, the hidden struggle of other people became visible to me.  Maybe courage and compassion aren’t what we think or what has been represented. Maybe courage isn’t hanging from a dilapidated bridge, Tom Cruise style trying to rescue a baby from a raging river. Maybe courage is seeing someone for who they truly are. Whether I liked it or not and most times I didn’t. Peter had the ability to see people, even if they didn’t notice. He had the presence of mind to provide people with what they needed, without losing himself. As I sit here and reflect on my anniversary and his death, a whole two minutes. I am reminded that I need to have courage, when I think it’s impossible. Maybe I need to stop and take a beat before I rip someone a new asshole for being an asshole. Or maybe I don’t but I need to have to courage to try. That’s the least I can do to honor a man that gave me so much.