New Shoes & New House: Reflections on changes, big and small

I ordered a new pair of sneakers this morning.

It would be unremarkable and hardly worth blogging about if the shoes I am replacing didn't hold so much meaning to me.

In the middle of a global pandemic - early summer 2020 - Greg convinced me to replace my well-worn sneakers. I was regularly taking long walks (for my sanity as much as the exercise) and the shoes I'd had for years were falling apart. Never one to buy myself anything, Greg encouraged me to take the plunge.

We loaded our son into the back of our old car and drove to Kohls to pick up my order. A woman came out wearing a face mask and surgical gloves and put the box of shoes in our trunk. No contact needed. None allowed. It was a bizarre way to shop and so representative of 2020.

It wasn't a very memorable moment, until Greg died. Suddenly those shoes were a link to him: proof that he had lived; a reminder of his care; evidence that my husband loved to spoil me with nice things.

Five years later, those shoes are falling apart. I've considered replacing them many times but couldn't take the plunge. I wasn't ready to let go of them and all they represent.

Today, I am.

Maybe it's because I've said yes to bigger changes. I've changed churches and jobs and am preparing to change towns. I bought a house without Greg and am slowly converting the home we lived in to a generically move-in ready house for someone else.

How strange that it was easier to decide to change homes than to change shoes.

Grief shows up in the big things (like home sales) and in the small things too. Many people know our home and associate it with Greg but only I associate my sneakers with that day in the car. Maybe that's why it hurts to let go of the small things.

But 5 years later, it's time. Because I realized the best way to remember Greg isn't to hold on to something broken and old but to enjoy something new - just like he'd encourage me to do if he was here.