I’d gone out one early November morning last year to walk the dogs, a break from caring for my husband, Dale. Some neighbors were passing by with their dogs too. I told them how weak Dale was, finally home from the hospital after suffering two strokes and a heart attack, his breathing still labored from his initial Covid infection in September. I looked down our street, at the homes that would soon be lit in a communal holiday display, and pushed away the thought that this Christmas might be Dale’s last. “We’ll have to skip lighting up this year,” I said. “Dale’s all that matters, and I need to get these dogs walked so I can get back to him.” The couple offered to take care of our Christmas lights, but it was just too big a job.
We usually went all out, trimming the house, wrapping the tree, lining the yard and driveway with candy canes. It was a full day’s work for Dale and me. Christmas was the reason we’d moved to Ashby Avenue in one of Des Moines’ must-see holiday neighborhoods. For the entire month of December, cars paraded down the streets from 6 to 10 p.m. Carolers and community groups filled the sidewalks. I’d always dreamed of being part of it, and when Dale and I heard that there was a house going on the market three years ago, we jumped at the chance.
Seeing a great opportunity for a cause that was dear to me, I set up a station at the end of our driveway to collect donations and non perishables for the food pantry. It meant standing out in the cold with other volunteers for hours, but I didn’t care. Last year we’d raised $7,500.
I returned with the dogs, feeling sad that the food pantry would go without extra support this year. Dale was awake, and I helped him sit up. He wasn’t able to talk much, but we’d only grown closer in our quiet time together.
The phone rang a few days after I’d run into the fellow dog-walkers. “My name’s Bob Coffey,” the caller said. “I’m a local contractor and hear you could use some help. My crew can put up your lights, free of charge.” I was stunned. He arrived before Thanksgiving with four other men. I showed them where we stored the lights but had to excuse myself to tend to Dale. “We’ve got this,” Bob said.
Dale and I watched from the front window as the men worked. In three hours, the crew was done. “Wow!” Dale said. I wrapped my arms around him.
A local news station picked up the story of Bob’s generosity, and it seemed to inspire everyone who heard about it. Alex, a college student who lived around the corner, knocked on the door one day, eager to walk the dogs. Our groomer offered to pick up our long-haired dog for appointments. Another friend came to the house at 5:15 a.m. three days a week so I could get in a morning run. Meals arrived from our church family and from the neighbors across the street.
Then I got a call from the neighborhood coffee house. “We want to help with the food drive.” Could that really happen too?
I called some of the volunteers from the year before. They called their friends. More than 50 people were lined up to cover nightly shifts.
On December 1, I flipped the switch to light up the house. The neighborhood was open for joy. Alex showed up dressed as Santa. I ran out to join when I could. So many people said they were pulling for us, keeping us in their prayers. I felt surrounded by love far beyond the neighborhood. Dale watched most of opening night from the window with tears in his eyes. The last 19 months of the pandemic had been so isolating for all of us. Now there was a real sense of coming together during a season that was made for it.
Late one evening I came back inside after spending a few minutes with the crowd at the foot of our driveway. Donations to the food drive were multiplying like the loaves and fishes. Dale was sitting in his usual spot by the window, getting weaker by the day. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “I’m so proud of you,” he said, every word a struggle. I slipped my hand in his. “God gave you this.” Dale saw that I would never be alone, even as our days together were drawing to an end. God had given me a sense of purpose and a community that would sustain me. I didn’t know yet that the food drive was on its way to topping $65,000 and 1,500 pounds of non perishables, but I already looked forward to what we might accomplish next year.
On December 30, 2021, I lay beside Dale, saying our final goodbyes. I’d bathed his body in essential oils, dressed him in fresh clothes. I didn’t want him to suffer a minute longer. Dale breathed his last about 10 p.m., just as the evening’s festivities were winding down. I went to the door and asked a volunteer to turn off our lights. The house went dark, a final tribute to my beautiful husband, while the lights around us shone on in Christmas’ love.
