Joan died January 19, 2002.

We'd been married 33 years, 4 months, 19 days, 3 hours, and 37 minutes. Every part of that time in my life had been permeated with Joan's presence and support, her cheerleading and her counsel. Together we'd raised two children, built professions, and painstakingly crafted a ministry organization.

Now the consequences of the vow—"until death do us part"—had come.

A friend in Vermont once told me about the return of rainbow trout to their spawning grounds. Sometimes, in the exuberance of the hard swim upstream against the down-rush of snowmelt, a fish would leap out of the torrent and onto the bank.

That's how I felt—flopping on a rocky shore, alone.

Well, alone is overdramatic, perhaps. Certainly I was surrounded by family, friends, and colleagues. But I was bereft of all that was Joan except for memories. As Tennyson said many years ago, "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." It's the same with memories. It's better to have them than not to have them.

In his book A Grief Observed, C. S. Lewis reflected on the loss of his wife and talked about how memories are no replacement for the real thing. He's right—memories are not a replacement for Joan. But they are a consolation.

To have memories, you must have remembering. One saying goes: "A problem shared is a problem halved." The arithmetic works differently with memories: "A memory shared is a memory doubled." I can certainly remember alone, and I do, but when someone else remembers with me, it is much better.

Two months after Joan died, I was at a restaurant with my two daughters, son-in-law, and grandson. As my older daughter, Charity, tried to decide whether to order soup or a salad, she asked our server if she could sample the soup. Her husband, Jamie, said, "You must have gotten that from your mother. I remember her doing that a lot."

Such a warm glow washed over me! What a kind gesture that was to me—to all of us—to have Jamie so naturally include in the conversation something that Joan used to do, something that we even kidded her about.

Right up there with the myths that the world is flat or that the moon is made of green cheese lies the one that says you shouldn't talk about someone who has died for fear of hurting those who are grieving. One of the greatest gifts you can give someone who's grieving is easy, natural reminiscing about the person who has died.

Many people view the grieving process as a wound scabbing over, and believe that raising memories is like picking the scab, slowing recovery. It couldn't be further from the truth. I can say that based not only on my own experience, but on that of many scores of people I've talked to.

A friend whose uncle died when she was ten years old told me this story. A few months after his death, her aunt paid a visit to their house. Before the aunt's arrival, my friend's mother told her, "Whatever you do, don't talk about Uncle Ed." At one point during the visit, the girl and her aunt were sitting side by side on a bed talking, and she blurted, "I miss Uncle Ed so much." They both started crying. Then the young girl, remembering her mother's warning, said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that." Her aunt replied, "Sorry? I'm so thankful that you mentioned him!"

Coming out of church one Sunday, feeling stony and alone, I was close behind a couple who had entertained Joan and me on several occasions. The woman, turning and seeing me, grasped my hand and said, "Oh, Ken, we miss Joan so much." Inside, I melted. So do I, I thought. So do I.

Another time I was communicating with a retired couple who have a part-time antiques business. I mentioned that, when our kids were small, I would take a vacation day from work, Joan and I would get a baby-sitter, and we'd head to a little town near St. Louis and spend the day browsing antique shops. The husband responded with an e-mail: