In the fall of my final year of college I learned of a study abroad program that my college was offering. The first months of the semester would be spent in England and that was to be followed by two weeks in Paris and a week in Glasgow. I got very excited about the prospect and remember floating the idea with my parents. My dad reacted in the way I expected, which was to say that any more than the private college tuition they were paying was not going to happen. My mother, however, was not satisfied with that outcome. She told me she would figure out how to make it possible and that I should apply to go. I did and she did and I know that making this a reality for me was far from easy for her.

As I was getting ready to leave for the semester, my mom and I talked a lot about the experience that was ahead of me. She told me that going to England was one of her dreams, that she wanted to walk in Regents Park and see Buckingham Palace, she wanted to see Big Ben and the jewels in the Tower of London and so much more. I remember the desire in her voice and I remember telling her that some day I would take her there, some day we would see it together.

In our free time during the semester, we had the chance to see so many sites. We did all the things on Mom’s list and more. With each place we visited I thought “I can’t wait for you to see this, Mom.” I wrote descriptions in my letters to her but I was confident a trip for the two of us was a definite for the future. That was the kind of adventure that my father would never have even entertained taking but Mom and I, well, we were going to do this. I was absolutely certain.

As is said, “Man plans and God laughs,” which I didn’t grasp at the tender age of 20. But by the time I turned 21, I understood. Because my mother had a recurrence of the breast cancer that she had battled years before and, although she fought hard again, within a couple of years she was gone. There would be no trips for the two of us along with so many other things, so much other experiences, we would never share.

This past two weeks I had the gift of being in England with my husband, prior to attending an international conference in Scotland. I know that I’d told Tom, when we were planning the trip, that I regretted never having had the opportunity to experience England with my mother. And I said it again when we were there, as we did the things she had longed to do and saw the sights she had longed to see.

Tom and I took a day long tour while we were there. We visited Stonehenge and a variety of charming towns and amazing sites. Our last stop was a short one, a quick walk through the village of Castle Coombe. We wandered into the beautiful St. Andrew’s Church and back out and then, unusual for me, I suggested we walk through the old cemetery next to the church. As we walked down the stone steps, a headstone caught my eye. And I stopped. The woman buried there shared the same date of birth as my mother, right down to the same year. She, too, had died young but not the same year as my mother.

I stood there, feeling my breath catch and I pointed it out to Tom. And he slid his arm around me and said “That’s just a sign that she’s with you” and I knew, without a doubt that he was right, and, as I reflected on it, I’d felt her presence with me throughout our trip.

I still wish, of course, that I had kept my promise to her, that life had allowed her the time to experience all the things she’d dreamt of, that we’d had this trip and many more, that she’d been here to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was not meant to be but I am grateful that she lives on in my heart and mind. And I am grateful for those moments, like the one in the St. Andrew’s cemetery, when the circle feels, at least for an instant, unbroken and fills my full heart.