A few weeks ago, Bob asked me a question that has stayed with me:
“When you went back to Buckhorn, were you searching for Naomi?”
Even now, when I remember his question or try to say it aloud, tears come
to my eyes. At first, I did not know exactly how to answer. I knew Naomi would
not physically be there. I know she is with the Lord. Yet something within me
was searching for her.
Now I think I understand it more clearly: I was searching especially for
the young Naomi—the Naomi I never knew.
Buckhorn, Kentucky, was part of Naomi’s life before I entered her story.
It was where she served as a young nurse in a rural clinic. It was where her
compassion, courage, faith, and sense of calling were already taking shape.
Long before she became my wife, the mother of our children, and my companion
through 45 years of marriage, Naomi was living a life that I knew only through
the stories she later told me.
When I returned to Buckhorn, perhaps I was trying to enter that earlier
chapter of her life. I wanted to see what she had seen, walk where she had
walked, and understand more fully what had shaped the woman I loved.
I knew Naomi as my wife and closest companion. I knew her as a nurse, a
mother, a servant, and a woman of deep faith. I knew her through our years of
raising our children, serving in ministry, traveling, facing her kidney
disease, and sharing the ordinary experiences of married life.
But I never met the young Naomi of Buckhorn.
What was she like then? What did she think about as she traveled those
roads? What did she see in the people she served? What challenges did she face?
What was God teaching her? What dreams did she carry? How did those experiences
prepare her to become the woman I would eventually meet and marry?
Perhaps part of my heart was asking:
“Naomi, what were you like here? What did you feel? What did God show
you? I wish I could have known you then.”
There is something especially painful about realizing that, even after 45
years of marriage, there were still parts of Naomi’s life that I had not
completely explored. I thought I knew her well—and I did. But no matter how
long we love someone, there are still rooms within that person’s story that we
have never fully entered.
After someone dies, we can no longer ask the questions we wish we had
asked. We cannot sit across the table and say, “Tell me more about who you were
then.” We cannot hear the tone of the voice, watch the face brighten, or allow
one memory to lead naturally to another.
Perhaps that is one reason Bob’s question touched me so deeply. I was not
only grieving the Naomi who died on November 8, 2024. I was also longing to
meet a younger Naomi whom I could now know only through places, photographs,
writings, stories, and the people who may still remember her.
Buckhorn holds part of her story. Because of that, it has become
something of a sacred place for me. Returning there was not simply taking a
trip into the past. It was more like making a pilgrimage into Naomi’s life.
I was not expecting to find her standing there. But perhaps I hoped that,
by walking where she walked, I might feel closer to her. Perhaps the physical
place could help close, for a little while, the painful distance between the
life we once shared and the life I must now live without her beside me.
Was that healthy? I believe it was.
There is a difference between trying to recover a life that cannot return
and intentionally revisiting a place that helps us remember, understand, honor,
and grieve. I was not trying to deny Naomi’s death. I was trying to know her
more fully and preserve the meaning of her life.
In one sense, I was searching for Naomi. But I was also searching for a
part of our shared story. The young woman who served in Buckhorn eventually
became the woman I married. Everything God was doing in her life before she met
me became part of the person with whom I would share 45 years.
By searching for the young Naomi, I was also trying to understand more
completely the wife I knew and loved.
The tears that come when I think about this do not mean something is
wrong with me. They reveal how deep the bond remains. My mind understands that
Naomi is with the Lord, but my heart still experiences her absence. Grief lives
in that distance between knowing and longing.
My heart still asks: How do I remain close to you when I can no
longer see you, hear your voice, ask you questions, or travel beside you?”
I also wonder whether I was looking for reassurance that Naomi was real,
that our marriage was real, and that the life we shared still matters.
Forty-five years together was a lifetime, but it was still not enough. I would
have welcomed more years, more conversations, more memories, and more
opportunities to know her.
I do not want to leave Naomi behind as I move forward. But perhaps moving
forward does not require leaving her behind. It means learning to carry my love
for her differently.
I can no longer carry that love through her physical presence. I now
carry it through memory, gratitude, faith, the stories I preserve, the places I
revisit, and the ways her life continues to shape my own. I can honor the Naomi
I knew while continuing to discover the young Naomi whose earlier life helped
prepare her for the years we would share.
My Reason for Hope
My story does not end with searching, tears, and separation. I have hope
because Jesus Christ is real. Naomi trusted Jesus, loved Him, and lived her
life for His glory. I believe that when she took her final breath on earth, she
immediately entered the conscious presence of the Lord.
As Paul wrote:
“To be absent from the body” is “to be present with the Lord.”
—2 Corinthians 5:8
Jesus told His disciples:
“I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will
live, even though they die.”
—John 11:25
Naomi is not lost. She is not merely part of my past. She is alive in the
presence of Jesus.
In my blog post, One Minute After You Die, I reflected on what
Scripture teaches and what Christian writers such as Erwin Lutzer and Randy
Alcorn believe about the present Heaven.
I believe Naomi is fully conscious, completely at peace, and free from
the pain and physical limitations she experienced on earth. Her years of
dialysis, weakness, medical appointments, and suffering are over. She is
experiencing joy, worship, fellowship, and the presence of Christ.
Her first experience after leaving this life may have been coming face to
face with Jesus—the Savior she loved and served. I can only imagine the awe,
peace, and joy she experienced when her faith became sight.
Some details remain mysteries. Scripture does not tell us everything we
might wish to know about the present Heaven. I cannot say with certainty how
much Naomi knows about what is happening on earth or exactly what her daily
experience is like. But I believe what Scripture clearly teaches: she is with
Christ, she remains the person God created her to be, and she is safe, joyful,
and fully alive in His presence.
She is awaiting the resurrection of her body and the promised new heaven
and new earth. Her story has not ended. It has entered a new and eternal
chapter.
That gives me hope for my own future.
I am approaching 87. I do not know how many days or years God will still
give me. Only God knows whether our reunion will be soon by our earthly
measurement of time. Until then, I want to remain faithful to whatever purpose
He still has for me. I want to use my time, gifts, experiences, and resources
well. I want to finish well.
But I also live with the confident hope that this separation is
temporary. Because of Jesus Christ, death will not have the final word. Someday
I will see my Savior face to face. And through Christ, I believe I will also be
reunited with Naomi.
Perhaps then I will know the young Naomi in a way I never could on earth.
Perhaps there will be time for the stories I never heard and the questions I
never asked. Perhaps I will finally understand more fully how God was at work
throughout her entire life—before I knew her, during our marriage, and after
she went ahead of me into eternity.
I am not searching for Naomi as someone who has disappeared without hope.
I am remembering someone who has gone ahead of me.
If Bob were to ask me that question again, I think I would answer:
“Yes, in a way, I was searching for Naomi—but especially for the young
Naomi I never knew. I wanted to see where she had lived and served, understand
what shaped her, and somehow meet that earlier version of the woman who later
became my wife. I knew I could not find her physically in Buckhorn, but I hoped
that by walking where she walked, I might know her more fully and feel closer
to her.
“But I am not without hope. Jesus is real, and Naomi is with Him. She is
alive, at peace, free from suffering, and experiencing the presence of the Lord
she loved. I believe our separation is temporary. Until God calls me home, I
want to live faithfully and finish well. Then, because of Jesus, I believe I
will see Naomi again.”
I was searching for the Naomi who existed before there was a “Naomi and
Richard.”
And because Jesus conquered death, I believe that one day I will. And
then the Great Reunion!
