THE CANE

"

"Boxing up the rest and being stopped only by the cane reminded me of something important. I am moving forward. I am learning to carry him not in objects, but in my heart, where love endures. "

Today, I did something I’ve been putting off for four years. I boxed up my husband’s clothes, his books, and even my wedding dress. For the most part, I was steady. I felt proud of myself for finally being ready to let those things go, to pass them on to someone else who might find use and meaning in them.

But then I came across his cane.

That simple piece of wood stopped me in my tracks. Tears came—not for the shirts, not for the shoes, not even for the wedding dress, but for the cane. I’m not even sure why, except maybe because it was the object that bore witness to his struggle. It wasn’t just “a thing.” It was part of his daily fight, part of how he carried on.

In that moment, I was reminded of a scene from A Christmas Carol. The Cratchit family’s table is shown without Tiny Tim, and by the door rests his little cane. That single image speaks louder than words: grief, love, and absence, all captured in one small object. My husband’s cane felt the same. It wasn’t just a reminder of his limitations—it was a reminder of his courage. And like Tiny Tim’s cane, it carried the weight of all that was lost, while also holding the memory of love that endures.

So yes, it hurt to the core. But it also reminded me of why I loved him so fiercely—because through every challenge, he kept walking, and I walked with him.

Boxing up the rest and being stopped only by the cane reminded me of something important: I am moving forward. I am learning to carry him not in objects, but in my heart, where love endures.

And as I placed the cane gently aside, I was reminded of Jesus’ words on the cross: “It is finished.” The suffering is over, the struggle complete. What remains is not the pain, but the love that lives on.