For weeks I’d been attracted to Judi’s effervescent personality squeezed into her petite frame. Her presence at the company where we worked had derailed my twenty-something’s career focus and made me look forward to every day at work.

I was determined to get a date with her. When I saw her name on the sign-up sheet for the company’s curling league, I considered it an opening. Immediately, I signed up for the league, too, even though I’d never curled before She had rebuffed my invitations up to that point but I was certain it was because she hadn’t yet had a chance to get to know me.

Waiting the weeks for curling to start was excruciating. We were assigned to separate teams. No matter. The first night after play ended everyone gathered for a kickoff party. I couldn’t find her. I panicked. She’d been with her friend Elaine.

I mingled, searching. Nothing. Then I caught Elaine’s eye. She tilted her head. I followed her gaze. Judi was speaking with another man. Jealousy ricocheted through my body. Had I really become this obsessed?

After several attempts to get her attention by trying to walk through her line of sight, I decided to go home and headed for the door.

“Oh, there you are!” I suddenly heard her say. My breath caught in my throat and I turned.

“Elaine said you were looking for me,” she said. “Well, here I am!”

“Uh, could you… would you… if you like to, um… go for a coffee?” I stammered.

My face felt hot.

“I can drive you home… uh, after,” I added.

“I’d love to!” Judi said cheerily. “Lead the way!”

At that moment, I came to believe that magic was real.

Over coffee, she told me she lived in a small town about an hour from the city and caught a ride each day with her uncle.

An hour later, as we settled into my car, I was surprised when she gave me an address in the city. My heart was set on the added time that driving her home outside of the city would have given me with her.

“I’ve arranged to stay with a family friend the nights we curl,” she explained.

For the next few weeks after curling, Judi allowed me to drive her to the friend’s apartment. She insisted I drop her out front. I kept hoping for time to get closer to her, but that wasn’t on her agenda just then. I learned later that her mother was a widow and as the eldest of seven children Judi’s earnings were important to the family’s finances. One day she allowed me to pick her up and drive her to the curling game in addition to driving her home. A few weeks later, she asked me for a ride home and to then come inside to meet her mother and six younger siblings.

While munching on cookies and coffee, Judi’s sisters looked at me like an unwelcome alien. But her only brother, Terry, at six the youngest sibling, made no effort to conceal his excitement at his big sister bringing home a male friend. Her mother was cautiously cordial, understandably.

After more of our drives and visits, eventually there came an invitation to stay the weekend. But I noticed what seemed to be an ulterior motive: gaining my help with overdue home repairs that had accumulated in the decade since her father had died. I jumped at the chance! It meant a legitimate reason to spend more time with Judi.

Years later, Judi confessed she had another ulterior motive. She thought it a good idea for her mom and her siblings to get to know me. I had no idea at the time—but Judi had decided she was going to marry me. But no one knew this yet except for her.

It was a year later that I asked her.

The years sped by. In our last ten working years we were partners in a small company that supplied two kinds of consulting services. Judi had become an expert in the management of non-profit organizations, especially those helping abused women and children. My area was advising companies listed on stock exchanges. Our work often took us out of the office. We’d leave messages on Post-It notes stuck to each other’s computer. We always signed them, “ILY” (“I Love You”). One day a student intern walked into my office with a Post-It stuck to her left index finger.

“I found this on the floor beside Judi’s chair,” she said, waving it. “Who’s ILY?”

Besides our lovebird ways, Judi had become a firebrand advocate of support for abused women and children She was awarded the Canada 125 Confederation Medal for her achievements to society and was one of the few in Canada to receive the Queen Elizabeth Golden Jubilee Medal for the same reason. Although these high honors came during our years in business together, she quietly refused to include these in any company promotional material. She insisted that her focus was on bringing help to others, not on winning awards.

As our three daughters became amazing and independent young women, we looked forward to retirement. Our preparations for retirement included a summer place on a mountain lake in western Canada. We loved observing wildlife, especially Great Blue Herons, from the deck. The majestic birds arrived almost daily to feed on minnows in a cove below our deck. They became our mascot.

“Our 30th anniversary is coming up, honey,” Judi said one day. Let’s do something really different.”

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

“Why don’t we commission a painting of blue herons?”

A week before our anniversary we picked up the watercolor, a pair of nesting blue herons. The artist rolled it carefully into a mailing tube, which we placed in a closet. There it remained as 30 years edged toward 35. One day, I secretly got our prized watercolor framed. On our 35th anniversary as Judi entered the bedroom that evening she saw the framed painting above our bed. I’d hung it moments earlier.

“What a wonderful anniversary gift,” she said, the light in her bright hazel eyes a reward beyond measure.

Three years later, we were thrilled to retire on January 31, 2003.

On March 14, Judi was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Twelve months later, she was in a hospital’s palliative care section. (By good fortune not yet in a hospice.)

“Please promise me,” she said one day from her hospital bed. “That after I’m gone you’ll keep living a healthy lifestyle, like we’ve been doing. Okay?”

“Sure, honey,” I replied. “I promise.”

“I need you to promise me something else,” Judi said.

“Of course, what is it?” I asked.

“Don’t say no,” she cautioned, her voice weak but determined.

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

“I don’t want to leave you knowing that you’ll be alone. So promise me you’ll find someone else to spend the rest of your life with.”

I remember choking back my emotions, turning away so Judi couldn’t see my glistening eyes. I didn’t know it then, but these were the best gifts she could give me: permission to move on, to be happy, to live well. In that moment, I didn’t realize how much I would need those.

“Did you hear me?” Judi said to my back.

“Yes, honey, I did. Can we talk about this later?” I managed, turning, barely able to speak.

“No,” she said weakly but firmly. “I need you to promise me. I can’t leave you thinking you’ll be alone.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” I replied, certain I’d be unable to keep that promise.

Judi looked up, her eyes sad and weary, and then she drifted off to sleep. I sat, struggling unsuccessfully to hold back tears, looking at the woman I loved more than life itself.

What she had asked of me spoke volumes about the unselfish person she had been for all of her too-short life of 56 years.

By now, the end was approaching. She would visit for a few minutes with our children and grandchildren and close friends, and then drift off to sleep.

One day while she slept I was tidying her room. My back was turned.

“I love you, honey,” I heard her say.

The sound of her faint voice startled and thrilled me. I turned.

“I really need you to make that promise for me,” she said, her failing energy barely able to make her now-raspy voice audible.

“Please, honey,” she said, her eyes pleading. “Please… do it for me.”

My resistance crumbled. Although unable to force my mind to consider a life without Judi, I replied:

“Okay, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I love you.”

Judi died three days later, minutes after squeezing my hand weakly and telling me for the last time: “I love you.”

A friend of Judi’s led her service. Eva sought to help our young grandchildren understand by sharing this story:

Once upon a time, a happy group of tiny bugs were playing on the bottom of a lily pond. One by one, the bugs climbed up a lily stem and disappeared. Those left behind wondered what had happened to their friends. Then they agreed the next bug to venture beyond the surface of the pond would return and tell the others what they’d experienced.

One day, a bug left the pond and found itself on a lily pad. It fell asleep. When it woke, the warm sunshine had dried its body. Instinctively, it spread the wings it had grown while asleep and began flying away. The bug had become a beautiful dragonfly with four resplendent wings. Then it remembered the promise. It swooped back toward the surface of the pond and headed downward. The dragonfly hit the surface and could go no farther. It was not able to return. Finally, it came to realize that the others would just need to have faith that it was going to be all right.

“Be prepared,” counseled a friend who’d lost his wife a few years earlier.

“After the gatherings, everyone will return to their lives, as they must. There will be a huge void.”

He was right.

I yielded to soul-crushing grief, depression, alcohol abuse and self-pity. Time blurred. Life lacked purpose. Where love and the joy of sharing a life together once reigned supreme, now each day brought only inescapable, suffocating pain.

Days went by without my leaving home. Some mornings I woke after passing out on the living room couch. At the lake, morning coffee often was half vodka. The days passed in an alcoholic quest to self-medicate against the pain. There was no incentive to eat, or even to get cleaned up and to dress for the day. My equilibrium had vanished.

I considered ending my life, exploring options that would be the least messy for others. Mercifully, our children and our grandchildren gave me purpose. Without them I might have proceeded, just to stop the awful crushing pain.

One afternoon I woke in my car at a ferry terminal. I’d passed out on the opposite side of the lake from my summer place, uncertain where I’d been or why. I finally realized it was time to get my life back under control.

Judi would not like what I’ve been doing… what I’m becoming, I thought. She deserves better than this.

My two promises to Judi bubbled back to the surface.

I began cycling and exercising, and eating well, and I found a part-time job. Three years later, the gut-wrenching pain remained but I was learning to manage it better. The time had come to emerge from emotional exile and to keep my second promise to Judi.

Our youngest daughter Carrie suggested online dating.

Good gracious, I thought. I’ve not dated for 40 years! I don’t know how anymore. But why not?

Sharolie and I met online. We agreed to have lunch.

She recommended a place. Arriving there, my eyes fell upon a breathtakingly gorgeous woman. She looked up at me with brown eyes full of light, warmth, and energy. Deep within were hints of vulnerability. Irresistible!

At that moment, magic returned to my life. We hadn’t even introduced ourselves, but I’d fallen for her.

After lunch we took a walk. Just as romantic good luck would have it, a warm gentle rain was falling. We huddled close under an umbrella, touching hands and shoulders, often… willing.

Dating followed as if preordained. We delighted in our shared interests: hiking, exploring nature, learning and living healthily. Soon we became virtually inseparable. We shared our life stories. I told her about Judi and the blue heron painting, among other stories.

I realize that many people try online dating for many years without success. I couldn’t believe my incredible luck in finding love online. And finding love for a second time in my life.

One day at the lake, Sharolie decided to visit a yoga ashram she’d seen nearby. I went along.

We followed a path through trees to a white domed temple, the centerpiece of the ashram. En route, a large shadow crossed overhead. We looked up. A blue heron circled, folded its six-foot wingspan and landed gracefully 70 feet away. A few steps beyond, people were tilling a garden. The famously shy blue heron took no notice.

For several minutes, Sharolie and I exchanged what seemed like meaningful looks with the heron. Reluctantly, we continued to the temple, toured the unique structure and emerged back into the sunlight.

A blue heron was standing in a small lily pond at the entrance! Like the earlier blue heron, it stared at us. Was it the same one we’d seen earlier?

Other visitors walked by, glancing in amazement over their shoulders. The heron just stood there, patient and unblinking, returning our gazes.

“It has to be a message,” Sharolie whispered. “It has to be from Judi. It’s bringing a message from her. I just know it.”

We walked past the pond, looking back. The blue heron turned its head, continuing to watch us. We walked behind the temple. The spectacular scenery overlooking the lake failed to wrest our minds away from the lily pond.

“I wonder,” I said. “Do you think it’s still there?”

Sharolie nodded.

When we returned the blue heron was indeed still there. Once again, it invited our gazes.

Finally, afternoon shadows drew our attention. Back at our car, we wondered how long the heron might have stayed.

“Yes… I’m sure,” Sharolie said. “That had to be Judi sending you a message… sending us a message… telling you every thing’s okay. I think Judi’s telling us she knows you’ve finally kept your second promise to her and that she’s going to be all right now.”

As our relationship matured, I wanted my daughters to share the joy that I felt at having found someone I knew their mother would happily endorse. Kim was the first daughter to meet Sharolie. She invited us to a baseball game. We had just settled in when two enormous dragonflies swept around Sharolie’s head, landing calmly on her baseball cap.

“Oh, my God!” Kim screamed. “Look at that! Dragonflies! Two of them! Oh my God! You know what that means, don’t you?”

Despite Kim’s outburst, the dragonflies remained. For Kim, the dragonfly parable had come true, convinced those dragonflies were on a mission from her late mother to give Sharolie and me her approval.

For months, Sharolie and I experienced hovering dragonflies. And we’d frequently see blue herons fly by, wherever we happened to be. Like the dragonflies, these encounters were often in atypical locations.

“She’s just checking in, Jim,” Sharolie would say at those moments. “She’s just checking in.”

Soon after we were married, their visits became less frequent.

SOURCE CREDIT: The dragonfly analogy is drawn from, “The Water Bug Story”, to be found at www.healingheart.net/stories/waterbug.html

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