With Hope

Grief.  That thing we feel when someone dear to us, steps into eternity.  That empty, hollow, overflowing feeling.  The way the world looks gray and dull when picturing it without our loved one there.  Most of us know the ache of waking that first morning, knowing it's your first full day without him or her.  Most of us know what it is to stand there in the cemetery, waiting for them to lower someone precious into the ground for a final time. 

But not all of us know hope.  Not all of us believe in heaven and eternal life.  That is the part I don't understand.  How does a person who has no hope, grieve and then move on?  Where do they draw their strength from?  How do they reconcile the death with the eternal nature of our spirits - something we know deep inside regardless of creed?

I believe in eternity.  I believe in Heaven.  I believe that my daughter and my other children are all there waiting for me.  I believe my Gramma is there, and that as we always talked about when I was growing up, she will meet me at the Eastern Gate.  I believe my great-grandpa Max is there.  My great-uncle Elmer.  My brother.

And it fills me with hope and anticipation.  The day is coming when I'll be reunited with them all, and I will never have to say goodbye again.

So I grieve, but with hope.

In My Dreams

During the day, I miss her.  My Gramma, that is.  I miss her every day.  I miss her when something is beautiful, I miss her when things get ugly.  I miss her when I smile and when I cry, and when I do well and when I fail.  When I feel like I am soaring high and when the weight of the world is crushing me, I miss her.

Growing up, she was part of every day.  Most of what I did, she was there and she was in the middle of.  I never really learned to let go of that.  The last time Derek and I drove away from their home, I said to remember and treasure that image, as it wouldn't last.  I had the idea that something was about to change, but I didn't really know at all.

I never would have guessed she was to be taken so abruptly from this world.  To think that a driver's carelessness would be the thing responsible for such a staggering loss... I just wouldn't have done it.  That's what happens to other people, not to me.  Not to her.  But despite being willing to give up everything to go back and change it somehow, with chilling finality, she was killed that day.

She's not dead though - not spiritually.  I know she lives and is rejoicing and dancing in heaven.  But until I join her there, she's gone from my world.  She can't tell me who to love or what to do or how to be, no matter how desperately I wish for her wisdom. 

But at night when I dream, I don't know that.  When I dream, she is alive and present.  Usually, in the dreams, I know she is dead and I know she can't be there... and yet, there she is.  She laughs and smiles and speaks, and we all act like it's perfectly natural for her to be doing those things.  I wish dream-hugs lasted after waking.  I wish I could retain that sense of wholeness and safety after sleep stops for the day.  Some mornings, I let myself sleep through my alarm just so I can have a little longer with her.

But in my dreams is just that... in my dreams.

The reality of it all is, the pain is real.  The alone is real.  The sadness and the lingering sense of shock and disbelief and the empty feelings... they are all real.  Even more real, though, is the fact that this isn't going to last forever.  I'll see her again, and it will be a forever reunion.  It's going to be the end of the pain, the end of the nightmares, the end of the loneliness.  THAT is the reality I try my hardest to focus on.

And in my dreams... in my dreams, I let myself have a reminder that this situation isn't exactly as it appears.

It Makes Me Ache For Heaven

A lot of the time, I'm really genuinely grateful for my earthly life.  I like it.  It's beautiful.  Some times, my attitude isn't so good.  Always, I know that my life is a gift - as is every life. 

And some lives.... some lives have touched me in a way that makes me ache for heaven.  In a way that changes my decisions because I think, "No, I have to make it.  I have to see this person again."  I know my motivation for following God is supposed to not just be about what I'll get out of it, but if I am being genuinely honest... sometimes, it is.  Sometimes all I have left is what I know will happen when I get where I'm going.

And seeing Jim... means more to me than I'd have ever imagined it would.  It's a big, important deal.  Just having the hope of seeing him again, is enough to change my actions sometimes.  He's not the only person I miss... but today, he is the one I miss the most. 

It's been a year.  It feels like forever has passed and it feels as fresh as if it was yesterday.

Tonight I pause to remember not one of the Better Men, but one of the Best Men.

Half a Dozen Roses

When I was growing up, I wasn't one of those little girls who longed for Prince Charming to come my way and sweep me off of my feet.  I didn't need him.  I had my Daddy, and I had my Grampa.  The loved me and cherished me and were the men who taught me what a man is supposed to be.

I was less than six months old on my first Valentine's day.  My Daddy didn't do anything for me - I was a baby, after all.  But my Grampa gave me a fancy card and bought me a single red rose.  He was my very first Valentine... and that is something that nobody else will ever be.  After my dad regained custody of me, when I was about six and a half, he started a tradition of buying me flowers - lots of them - and chocolate and a fancy card.  He did such a beautiful job of showing me I mattered and was loved and that he thought the world of me.  So did my Grampa.  Others did, too, but there is something special about being a little girl and being treated that way.  Something sweet that lasts.

But even though my Grampa was my first Valentine... I was not his.  My Gramma was his Valentine.  Their love is so beautiful, that it makes me cry.  And I don't cry.

On January 31st, 2007, my Gramma was killed in a car crash.  It has been six Valentine's days since then.  Six days that celebrate love.  Six days that my beloved Grampa has had to watch the world celebrate while his heart breaks. 

This morning, I stopped and bought Grampa a dozen pastel roses.  They are his favorite.  Red ones and white ones make him cry - red because that's what Gramma always got him, and white because that is what we adorned Gramma's casket with when we lowered her into the ground. 

I also bought a dozen red roses.  Red for love... that special love that long-lasting couples share.  That love that I saw between him and Gramma after 49 years of marriage.  Six, I gave to him.  One for each Valentine's day since she went to heaven.  He got a little teary when I explained their presence and why there were six red ones.  I didn't tell him about the other six.  I was already having a hard time holding my composure.  I forgot to remove the price tag from the cellophane wrapper.  I don't know if you know this, but at least around here, roses aren't cheap.  Especially not in the morning on Valentine's day.  And especially if you want them to be exquisite.  When he saw the price sticker, he blurted.  I blurt too.  I think I learned it from him.  He was amazed that I would spend "that much money just to say I love you to an old man."  Of course I would.  Of course. 

I left, and before I even put my car in gear, tears were starting to slide down my cheeks.  Hot, salty tears in the cold winter air.

I went home and did the things necessary to prepare for teaching martial arts, and then I took the remaining roses - six perfect red roses - and drove to the cemetery.

I sat in the snow by her headstone, staring at the words inscribed across the top.  "And Jesus said to them, ye must be born again."  I cried.  I said some things that I pray she got to hear... even though I'm not sure exactly what people in heaven do and do not have access to.  Then I took the first rose from the cellophane.  I broke the stem, because her absence has broken so many hearts.  I laid it on the black marble base, and thought about that first Valentine's day without her.  The rawness and shock hadn't faded at all yet that first year.  I took the second rose, broke the stem, and laid it next to the first.  I remembered how that second year, Derek and I had clung desperately to each other and were living in constant fear that something would happen and we would have to know the pain Grampa was feeling.  The third rose, the third stem, for the third year.  That year, Derek and I celebrated.  We celebrated our love.  The fourth rose didn't want to break - the stem bent back and forth several times before it cracked.  A thorn pricked the skin on my thumb, and I bled one bright red drop.  That fourth year, I was starting down the road I am still on.  The road of admitting how broken and how hurt I truly was; not just about Gramma, but about so much.  The fifth rose broke easily.  The fifth year.  The fifth year slipped past; nothing happened on Valentine's day.  I forgot to call my Grampa, and forgot to call my dad.  I didn't even think to say anything to my husband.  It was like that rose stem - stiff and insignificant.

The last rose... the sixth one... made me cry the most.  I cried because this year, I have watched so many who professed profound and everlasting love hurt one another.  I cried because if Derek and I have the sort of love my grandparents had... if we are that way 43 years from now... I cannot even fathom being given such a gift.  I cried because my Grampa is hurting and missing her and loving her.  I cried because I feel like she is the best parts of me.  And those best parts are not gone, but they are hurting.  The best parts are damaged and incomplete.  I cried because I've been trying since the day she died to figure out how to live in a world where she isn't... and I still don't know.  I cried because I actually thought to myself "Gramma will understand how I'm feeling.  I'll just call her..."

Six red roses.  Red roses on black marble, surrounded by white snow.  Broken stems for broken hearts.

And above it all... those words.  "Ye must be born again."

I cried because none of this pain is permanent.  I cried because I am redeemed, and so was she... and so anyone can be, if they will accept it.

Tonight, I have that heavy, tired, blurry-eyed feeling that one gets when one cries too much.  Every once in a while, I pick up my camera and look at the pictures I took.  I may share some day... but for tonight, they are mine.  The moments were mine, the tears were mine, and the comfort God whispered to my heart is mine.

It's Not Forever.

This life, I mean.  Eventually, we leave this earth and enter heaven, or we enter hell.  Death isn't scary if you are confident of your eternity.

But for those left here on earth after someone dies... it hurts.  It often does not feel temporary.  It feels like a giant hole has been ripped through you, a hole that will never heal.  It DOES heal, at least some.  It takes time, it takes faith, it takes hope, it takes support.  But healing happens.

Today, one of the best men I know is dancing in Heaven.  His son was there waiting, and his granddaughter, and so many others.  He's without pain, without chains, without flaws.  And I rejoice for him.  I truly do.

And my heart is aching, tears are flowing, for his family.  Because  good-bye hurts, even though it's not forever.  I remember how badly it hurt when my Gramma left my house healthy and happy, and didn't make it home.  That's as close as I can come to understanding what my friends, my family, are feeling.  Steven Curtis Chapman did a pretty good job of saying what's on my heart tonight.




This is not how it should be
This is not how it could be
This is how it is
Our God is in control

This is not how it will be
When we finally will see
We’ll see with our own eyes
He was always in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day

This is not where we planned to be
When we started this journey
This is where we are
And Our God is in control

Though this first taste is bitter
There will be sweetness forever
When we finally taste and see
That Our God is in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day
We’re waiting for that day
We’ll keep on waiting for that day

And we will know
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy

*This song was written and recorded by Steven Curtis Chapman. 

It's April 17th.

Today is April 17th.  When I woke up this morning, my phone was blinking.  It was telling me something. 

I let myself think about him... about Roy.  And his wife, Carman.  And their three children.  And about how Carman is still living life and having joy.  I prayed for her, and the children, that they'd know the strength and hope that only our Father gives us.  That they'd never lose sight of the fact that the day is coming when they'll be reunited with Roy.  And that they'd live life to the fullest, today and tomorrow and every day until our Lord returns for us.

You see, today is Roy's birthday.

He went to heaven in 2007.  I remember that phone call so clearly.  It was Sunday morning, and Derek and I were standing outside our tent in that early-morning mist, half a country away from home.  And we got that call... our 'brother' died.  It ripped at our hearts and we knew we had to get home.  Get home and be with our 'family.'  There may not be any legal relationship to these people, but they are blood-brothers, having chosen Christ as Lord.  We drove, and drove, and drove... it was a long, rough trip, but we did it. 

It wasn't that long after my Gramma died.  I feel like we (Roy's legal and biological family, and I) have grieved together.  And I pray that today, they are where I am.  I pray that they can think of him and smile, even though their hearts are a little sad.  I pray that there is peace and hope, not sorrow.  I pray that they feel whole again.

1 Thessalonians 4:15-18


For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord will by no means precede those who are asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

Happy Heaven Day.

I know I haven't posted much (okay, not at all) in the last months.  It's not for lack of words or motivation, it's... well, trutfully, it's because I've been using up my words in otherplaces, before I make it here to write.  This post is two years old now, but I want to bring it back... for a special anniversary.

Original Post - April 9, 2009
This post is one that I feel ill equipped to write. It needs to be written - deserves to be. But I don't think I'm in a position to actually write it the way it should be written. It's something I don't know anything about. It's something I've never experienced. And yet... I do know something about it. I have experienced it. Or rather, something like it.

You see, today is special. It is special to a mother and a father. It is special to sisters. It is special to an aunt and an uncle. Two cousins. Countless others I've never even heard of. And it is special to me.

Today is an anniversary. Not the sort of anniversary that is usually associated with happiness, balloons, cakes, or cards. Not the sort that everyone dreams of one day "celebrating." You see, this is an anniversary of sorrow. On this day, too many and yet not enough years ago, an earthly life was ended.

It was unexpected. I have been to the place of unexpected death. I have felt the very breath I need to live knocked out of me. I have felt so shocked, so... unprepared. I have whispered into the darkness, "It wasn't supposed to be this way." I have forgotten, upon awakening, that my lived one was no longer "with us." And I have been crushed all over again when I remembered the truth.

It was tragic. This was not a gentle death at the end of a long life. It was fast. It was violent. IT was traumatic. It was unfair. Many would say it shouldn't have happened. I have been there. I have listened as my grandfather whispered from his hospital bed, "this never should have happened." I have felt the sting of unfairness. I have known death that wasn't just a fact of life, death that was the result of tragedy. A single terrible event, which stilled the beating of a beautiful heart.

It was deliberate. This is the part that really gets me. It's one thing to keep living in the wake of an accident. Something that we had no control over. But in this case... there was no accident. There was nobody left on earth to blame. This deliberate, tragic, unexpected death - suicide - leaves nobody behind to take the blame. Yes, this particular suicide left a mother behind, believing that if her faith had been just a little stronger, she'd still have her son. It left a scared young girl who tearfully named her firstborn son after her brother. It left a particular twinkle in the eyes of children, a twinkle that reminds his loved ones that he was here. And it left, truly, nobody to blame. But it was deliberate.

To that end - he is not to blame, either. Not really. Yes, he made the choice. He took the actions that took a life - his own life. But he had help. A demon, perhaps several, whispering to him. Convincing him that if he just ended things, all would be well. Striving to keep him from living, from doing what God had planned for him. I have heard those voices. Felt compelled to obey them. I am ashamed to say, I even tried to listen to them. I failed - and I am thankful. He did not fail. I wish he had. But he didn't. I've heard people say that suicide leads inevitably and instantly to an eternity in Hell. I don't see this in my Bible. I see that there is nothing - neither life NOR death, nor height nor depth, nor anything in all creation (see Romans 8) can separated us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus. I see that salvation can't be earned, nor can it be accidentally "lost." Given up, walked away from, and declined, but not lost. And I believe that the young man I am writing about is in heaven. I believe that this act, this decision, was not a choice to turn his back on God. I believe it was a lost battle with temptation. We've all lost battles with temptation. We've all sinned. The difference here? There are so many left here trying to sort the results of this sin out. I believe that this young man's parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends... family... classmates... they can see him again. And I... well, I will meet him for the first time.

You see, I never knew this young man. At least not while he was here. I feel like maybe I know him a little, now. Now that he has changed my life. Permanently. His death shook so many. But they kept living. In their sorrow, they looked around. They saw me. For whatever reason, they took compassion on me. They took me with them to church. They, in many ways, made me a part of their family. And in knowing them over the last seven years, I feel like I have gotten to know this young man. I am thankful to him. I am grateful that he lived. And I look forward to meeting him.

Today is not about me though. It is about them - his family. His friends. So, today, I want to say this to them:
I remember. I am glad he lived. Glad he was loved. I won't say who I am writing about... but those of you who knew this young man, know who you are. You don't need a reminder of what happened on this day years ago. You don't need me to say he is missed, and you don't need me to remind you of the pain. But one thing you do need... is for me to remember. For me to say, "It matters to me. I won't forget. I know it hurts. And because I love you, on this day, I hurt with you."

I remember. It matters. I won't forget. I know it hurts. I love you. And I hurt with you.

And on this day, I celebrate. Will you celebrate with me? Will you celebrate the fact that this one life has touched so many? The fact that even cut off prematurely, his presence on this earth made an impact that we can't begin to fathom? Will you celebrate the fact that on this day, years ago, a young man shook off the chains of this life and stepped into his eternity? But most of all, will you celebrate the truth? The truth that like us, he was a sinner SAVED BY GRACE. The truth that not even death can separate him from his God? Because that is something to celebrate. Even in the midst of tears and sorrow.

Colossians 3:1

Since, then, I have been raised with Christ, I set my heart on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.  I set my mind on things above, not on earthly things.  For I died, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God.  When Christ, who is my life, appears, then I will also appear with Him in glory.

I remind myself of this today.  Today, I am not the only one missing a child.  I am not the only one who knows my child is in heaven, but does not know the color of his eyes or the texture of his hair.

I have a friend who is missing his child today, too.

It is a secret, painful ache.  One that people don't run around talking about.

"Hey, Bob, what's up?  Me... oh, well, I'm just thinking an extra lot about my dead children today."

Right.  When is the last time someone admitted such a thing to you?

That's what I thought.

So today, rather than talk about my friend or his child, I will talk about me.  Because if you know about me, you will know about my friend.  And you will know about Suzie and Matt, and you will know about J. & C., and M. & J., and S. & J., and R. and J., and T. & E., and L. & F., and so many more - and these are just people in my life.  I am sure there are just as many in yours.

There are parents who knew their child.  Who looked into his or her eyes, who stroked his or her hair, who prayed desperately to not have to say good bye.  Parents who have stood before a tiny coffin, tears streaming. 

There are parents who have paid all the fees, filled out all the papers, been approved on every level... and who must spend the rest of their earthly lives knowing their child (or children) will never come home because for whatever reason, the adoption never came to fruition. 

There are parents who met their child briefly... tiny babies, babies too tiny for life in the world.  Babies with beautiful souls and eternal spirits and no breath.  Babies who spent minutes, hours maybe, here on earth.

There are parents who have not met their child.  Parents who knew the child was on the way, and parents who didn't.  Parents who found out later, or who knew right at the moment, that a tiny life was leaving this planet and going to "a better place."

Some of these parents have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful for the children you do have."  As if they do not have, and never had the child or children that are already in heaven.  As if one child replaces another.

Some of these parents do not have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful you don't have to do the work of parenting.  Be thankful you can do whatever you want."  As if raising their children would have been hurtful.  As if they didn't want to raise their child.  As if pain and sadness were what that parent really wanted.

Today, I ask you to do something with us.  With these parents who have children who don't live on earth, but live forever in heaven.  You may or may not be one of these, but that doesn't change my request. 

Picture us in heaven, with our children.  Don't worry about getting the hair color or eye shapes or smiles all right.  I suspect that in heaven, these things are not going to be so important.  Just picture us together.  See that in your heart.  And remember this togetherness, in perfection for all eternity.  Remember this is what His perfect will is. 

I leave you with this... an image generated by a just-for-fun website.  If aging were to proceed in heaven as it does on earth, our children would be four years and seven months; four years and two months; three years and nine months (twins); three years and four months; and our recent twins were due in August of this year. 

Truth is, it hurts.  It always hurts.  But when I close my eyes, and picture our family of nine walking through eternity together, it hurts less.

Baby Boy Bolte.

I want to dedicate today's post to a sweet baby Isaac, and to his parents.  Today is his Heaven Day.  He was born with a fatal brain defect, and his parents were faced with the impossible task of squeezing a life-time of love into six short days.

If I could give them a gift... it would be this book.  It is called "God Gave Us Heaven" by Lisa Tawn Bergren.
"Papa, what's heav'n?"

"Why, heaven is God's home... the most amazing place we'll ever get to see."

"More amazing than Glacier Bay?" Little Cub asked. "Glacier Bay is the best place ever."

"Yes, Little Cub. Even better than Glacier Bay. God has great plans for you, Little Cub."

"For me?"

"For you. Both here, and later, when we get to heaven. God loves us and never wants to be far from us. He's made a way for us to be with him forever, in heaven."

"When do we get to see heaven, Papa?"

"When our life here is over."

"When we die?"

"Yes, Little Cub, when we die."

"Will I be old like Grandma when I go to heaven?"

"I hope so, Little Cub. I hope you get to live a long and full life before you see heaven. But some of us get to see it sooner than others."

"They do? How come?"

"They get sick or something bad happens. But the good news is that no matter what bad things happen here, nothing bad happens in heaven!"

"Nothing bad at all?"

"No more tears, no more sadness, no more pain. Only good. Only smiles!"

Little Cub thought on that for a while. "Will we eat in heaven?"

"Will we eat? Will we eat! We'll have more food than we need! It'll be the best of all polar bear feasts!"

"Every day?"

"Every single day."

"What else will we do in heaven?"

"Worship God and explore the best place we've ever seen."

"Will we get bored of that?"

"I doubt it. Heaven will be a million times better than even this!"
"Can we take our stuff to heaven?"

"No, we won't need our stuff there, Little Cub." He paused and lifted her backpack from her shoulders. "Feel how heavy that is? Doesn't it feel good to have it off of you?"

Little Cub nodded.

"Sometimes we think we need stuff, but it's just more weight for us to carry. Our best stuff doesn't weigh anything at all- stuff like love, family, friends, and faith. That's where our real blessings are."

"What will God look like, Papa?"

"Hmm... you know what Mama looks like? How she looks like love to us? God will be like that..."

"Cept a hundred times better!"

"Exactly!"

"Will we be angels?"

"No. Only angels are angels. God made us polar bears for a reason."

"Shoot. I want to fly."

Papa laughed. "Me too. But you never know what we'll get to do in heaven. I bet we'll think it's even better than flying."

"Will I get to see you in heaven?"

"I think so, Little Cub. I think we'll see all our loved ones there. It will be like the best family reunion ever."

"How do we get there, Papa? To heaven, I mean."

"Hmm... Let's say this side of the canyon is life here, on earth. And that side over there- where we find the path home- is heaven. God knew that our bad choices might keep us from him forever. Might even wash us away! He didn't want that. He loves us too much. So he sent his very own Son, Jesus, to be our bridge. All we have to do is walk across it to head toward our forever home."

Little Cub thought on that. "I like Jesus," she said.
"So do I, Little Cub. So do I."

"Will I have a room in heaven?"
"Oh yes, there will be many rooms in heaven."

"Will it be as cozy as mine?"

"The coziest ever, Little Cub."

"Will I sleep in heaven?" she said with a yawn.It had been a very big day. Papa yawned too and they giggled together.

"Heaven will be full of all the things we love most," Papa said. "And right now, sleep sounds heavenly to me."

Little Cub went to sleep and dreamed of seeing God and his angels, of singing and smiling all day long. Of her best friends and her whole family being with her forever. Of playing, of laughing, of everything good. And she was glad, so glad, that God had given them all heaven.

Happy Heaven Day, sweet Isaac.  You and Asher are not forgotten here.  Please show your support to Isaac's parents, the Boltes.  You can get to their blog by clicking here.

It's a Heaven Day Today

Today is post-op day 3. That means that the day after tomorrow, I may get to go home. Which would be fantastic.

However, having spent the last five months fighting to get this thing healed up, I am not going to argue with anything the surgeon says or recommends.
For the most part, the care I have received here has been phenomenal. The therapist who leads my DBT group stopped by to give me the homework from the group I missed. The psych. nurse who assists with that group came down today and spent nearly an hour - it was actually quite helpful.
My psychiatrist has been in at least twice every day, making sure that as my body gets all wonky from the surgery, the psych meds are adjusted as needed. Have had a few nurses and/or nurse's aids who are rather bitter that my "bed rest" does not involve a catheter or bedpan. Not sure why - it's less work for them this way, and it's definitely less traumatic for me. If the surgeon had not agreed to the modification, the psychiatrist would have prescribed some pretty serious sedatives.

Plus there's the whole laptop that's been supplied for my use. And the fact that some friends have allowed me to borrow some of their movies.
I guess I don't really have anything else to update you with. The wrappings (half-cast and LOTS of padding) won't come off until Sunday, and we won't know if the graft took, or how well it took, until then. Can't say when I'll be home, because nobody knows.

But I do know that when I get there, my house will be amazingly clean. My wonderful aunt Barb came over today, and she worked hard (very hard, from what I hear) to make my homecoming easier and safer. Extremely grateful.
My grampa's sweet, dear sister Hazel has stepped into eternity to join that cloud of witnesses. Those of us still here will miss her, but truth is, she's never been better than she is now. Today is her heaven day.
Specific prayer requests - rapid regrowth of skin at the donor site, and rapid growth at the graft site. Less of the pins and needles sensation, less itching. And it'd be great if the really persistent and very uncomfortable aching in my tibia were to ease up a bit.
So, that's all I've got for tonight.

Happy Birthday Roy

*For more of a background, please read this post from last year first*

There is a man named Roy. He is a good man. A gentleman. An exuberant and a cheerful man. He adores his wife. Loves his children with all his heart. Keeps His God ever before Him. Can stand tall through any storm.

Today is his birthday. I don't know which birthday - I don't know him that closely. And I can't ask him. He's not really here, you see. He is in heaven.

And today, his wife asked a question that really pulled at me. "Do they celebrate birthdays in heaven?"

My answer? I don't know. I don't see it in the Bible, but that doesn't mean they don't. Maybe today, there are all of those who went on before him, and they are gathered round celebrating the fact that Roy was born onto this planet. Or maybe it's just Natalie and him, sitting somewhere beautiful. Maybe he's doing something totally other, and is cherishing a grateful feeling by himself. Or maybe... maybe birthdays mean nothing there. I really and truly do not know.

What I do know, is that I am glad Roy was born. Exceedingly glad. I knew him a relatively short time. But in that time, he didn't just impact me. I watched him impact everyone around him. His love, his humor, his smile. His voice, his singing. The way he roughhoused with his children and their screams of joy as he did so.

So this evening, my husband and I took a break from what we were doing. We sat down in our chairs, and we each ate an ice cream cookie. We prayed for his wife, Carman. For his kids. For his entire family. But mostly, we thanked God that Roy was born. That he lived. That we got to know him.

So Carman... I cannot answer your questions. But I can tell you that here in Wisconsin, Roy's birthday was celebrated.

Something Is Missing.

I wrote this last year, for Roy.  This year, my heart goes out for him and his family, but I am finding myself lacking words... unable to express what I want to say.  So I am reposting what I wrote last year.

Do you ever wake up, and just know that something isn't right? That something is missing?

I do.

This morning, I can think of quite a few people who woke up and felt like something was missing. An entire family. Today marks the day.

The day that Carmen began going through life as a widow.

The day that Austin, Angelina, and Garrett began to learn what it was to be without an earthly father.

The day when Eric, Karl, Roger, Judith, and Marilyn became part of a group of five - not six.

The day when Toni, Iris, Amber, Craig, and Ivin stood with their spouses, grieving for them and aching with the absence of their brother in law.

The day when so many children had to learn how to go through life without their uncle.

The day when Jim and Rachel learned what it is to have a part of them step into eternity too soon.

The day when my husband and I received a phone call that ended our vacation and triggered a grueling, fast-paced trip halfway across the country to go and be with our family.

But it was also a day of rejoicing.

The day that Roy threw off all weights. No more sorrow. No more grief. No more pain. No anger. No bitterness.

The day that he became completely and utterly whole. The day he was perfected.

The day when, for the very first time, his sweet daughter Natalie ran to him and leaped into his arms. And when for the very first time, he held his little girl without the unspeakable heartache that a father endures as his child fights for life, and then steps into eternity to receive healing in heaven.

You see, three years ago today, Roy stepped into eternity. He left behind so many who loved him. An accident - a tragic, unexpected accident.

It was absolutely heart-wrenching for so many... his wife, his children, his brothers and sisters, his nieces and nephews... and so many more. Some people have a "family" that is composed of only those related by blood or by law. Roy had a family like that - a very large one. But that was only a part of his family. Roy was one of those people with a heart that couldn't seem to find enough outlets into which to pour love. A quick smile, a light-hearted optimism, and generosity made him so much more than a "friend" or an "acquaintance" to many.

When asked why we were in such a hurry to get home, my husband and I had only one answer - our brother died.

Today, I can honestly say that this post is not about me. It's not about my husband. It's about part of our family. We may not be related by any law, and there may not be any common blood between us, but they are family.

And today, they are hurting. There is something about an anniversary like this that can make everything seem so fresh, so raw. When a life is ended prematurely and abruptly, the day gets burned indelibly into your mind.

Today, they are on my mind. I suspect that every where they go, they catch glimpses of his face in the crowd. His laugh probably echoes in their minds, their dreams. I look at members of his family, and sometimes do a double take. I wonder if they do, too?

So today, I am choosing to share their burden, just a little. I am choosing to miss Roy. I am choosing to let his laugh, his voice echo in my mind, and to see his face. I am choosing to remember his eyes, his hands, his walk. I am letting memories of him playing with his children and of the look in his eyes as he looked at his wife play through my head. I am feeling just a hint of the ache as they remember far more than I could know or write about.

And lastly, I am rejoicing that there will be a day when I see him yet again. A day when I too will step into my eternal home. When at last, I will be as whole, as complete, and as free as he is. And I am saying "Happy heaven day, Roy" - for indeed, this is a painful day for those of us left here, but for him, two years ago today was the best day of his life.

In Memorium

Yesterday was January 31st, 2009. 2009... it seems so impossible that it's been two years. Two years since 2007.

I almost can't believe that it's been that long already. It seems like just yesterday that I spent three hours talking on the phone about babies with her. About wanting them. Loving them. And not having them. It seems like it was no more than a couple weeks ago that I brought home my new friend Derek for her to meet. Maybe a month since I told her, with some fear and trembling, that I was not going to go to medical school. That I was sure God had a different plan for my life.

It feels like it was just last night that my dad came to church to tell us. It seems like I haven't caught my breath yet, like the grief is still new and suffocating. Like my knees, if I stand, won't hold me. I almost expect someone to call and find out how we are. Find out how Grampa is. To ask about funeral arrangements.

But...

It seems like so much longer than two years. I don't remember the sound of her laugh. Her voice comes and goes in my head. Her face is blurred with the effects that time has on memories. Life seems so... normal... without her. And that couldn't happen in just two years, could it?

There is so much I want to say about her. To shout, to whisper, to find a way to share with the world. But I don't even know where to start. There are some things I'd like to say to her. I had thought about making this just part of my personal journal. However, I want to be someone that lets others see her. I want the pain I feel to be visible, so the world will see God as He comforts me. So I will share this with you.

---

Gramma:

Yesterday, I woke up and forgot what day it was. I remembered a week ago. I knew three days ago. I knew it was your day. Your Heaven Day. And I expected it to be like last year. Bitter. Raw. Sad. With just a hint of joy on your behalf, a hint of envy on mine, and a flood of comfort from the Holy Spirit. But I forgot. I woke up. Our friend Karl came over to help us work on the house. You remember him, right? You always said he was "a very nice young man." He and his wife called you Gramma. They still call Grampa, Grampa. And they've stood by him. I'm getting off track. We worked until about 3:30. That's when I remembered. I don't know how I forgot that long. And then, I got distracted again. Working with Derek and Jim. I feel guilty for not having spent the day remembering. For not seeing Grampa. And for being relieved that it was, on the whole, so... easy.

Today, as I start my third year without you, there's so much I wish I could share with you. And oh, how I wish you were here. There are things inside of me right now that I know you would understand. I wouldn't need to find words to say them - I could just look at you, and you'd know. I miss that - feeling like there was someone here who really, truly, got it. I wish I could ask you how to help my husband through this difficult time. I want someone who can tell me that they've "been there" and it will get better. If you were here, I'd share with you this battle I'm waging. This internal war that is taking most of my strength.

There is so much beauty I've seen in the last two years, Gramma. Amazing sunsets. Being so close to eagles that I can see the cracks in the skin on their feet. Holding a living, breathing answer to years of prayer. Frost that coats each individual needle on the pine trees outside. There are three moments that stand out, though. Moments when I felt almost as if you were there with me. Moments that happened because of you.

One was about a month after you died. I was walking on a trail. It was cold, windy. Snowing just a little. I was praying. I didn't have the strength inside to cry out to God. It was more of a desperate whisper. Please, God. Show me that you're here. That you care. I know you are, but today, just now, I need to be reminded. I heard the sound of a twig snapping. I looked around, and saw a flash of red in the bushes. As the cardinal found his way to the highest branch, I was transported to that winter morning on the way to church. The one you used to talk about all the time. When he (the cardinal) started to sing, peace flooded my soul. A still, quiet voice whispered to my heart. "I am with you. Always."

The second moment was a few months later. It was May, and I was running on empty. Empty heart, empty mind, empty emotions. I had been planning to take you to see the whooping cranes where they stop for several weeks each spring. I went without you. I stood on top of an observation tower, straining to hear just a hint of that wild sound. I was nearly in tears when I realized I wasn't going to see them.

I was getting ready to leave, still empty, when I noticed a strange feeling in the air. I stayed to watch a spectacular early-spring storm roll in across miles and miles of marsh. Wind shook the tower. Thunder rattled the ground. I spread my arms and looked to the heavens. And that still, small voice spoke. "I am here, too. I am with you. Always. I love you. I am bigger than this storm." I drove home full that day. Full, not of happiness or excitement, and not full of the thrill of seeing those wild creatures. But full of peace. Full of love. Full, knowing I was not alone.

The final moment? I'd spent weeks wishing I could just do something to feel close to you. Something that we could have shared, that would remind me. We were in church, and we were singing a new song. As we sang through the chorus a second time, I stopped. I listened. And in my heart, in my mind, I could see you. I could see you standing there, arms open wide, worshipping our God. Our God. I could see you doing what that song said - living to love Him, to bring Him praise. That is the one thing I can do, today, right now, with you. I can worship my God. I can love Him. I can bring Him praise. And I can live.

You see, in so many ways, you are "dead." Your body was put in a casket, covered with earth. Grampa had a beautiful stone put in place to mark the spot. None of us can touch you, see you, or hear you. Your feet are no longer pacing the floors while prayer streams from your mouth. Nobody is sitting on the heat register talking on the phone. I'd give almost anything for a "Gramma hug." But really, you are not dead.

You are alive. You are so very, completely alive. You are more alive now than you ever were here. You have a perfect body. You know Him as you are known. You can dance. Run. Sing. You have no pain. You have seen Him face to face. You know my daughter. My other children. You know my sister. I don't. I can't, not here. Not yet. But you, oh how blessed you truely are. To be so alive.

And so, that is something else I can do with you. I can live. I have so may choices left to make in this life. But the biggest, most important, I have already made. I choose life. I choose to live for my King. I choose to worship Him, praise Him, glorify Him. I choose to serve Him. To give Him all of me for as long as I have left on this earth, and for eternity after that.

And so, knowing that you have made the same choice, and knowing that you are doing it even now, this very instant, I will live.

I love you, Gramma.

~Jenn

Life.

Today, I'm thinking about life. Not so much about whether I'm satisfied with it or about how hard, or easy, it is. Today, I'm thinking about the end of life. Or rather, the end of what we here on earth refer to as life.
I know that we can't stay here, in this flawed and corrupted body, with our flawed minds and emotions. I know that to depart and be with Christ is by far the best. And I know that those who have gone and are with Him are better than they've ever been. They're perfect, surrounded by perfection, surrounded by the epitome of love and light. I don't mourn for their sake. I'm not sad for Gramma. I'm don't regret that Anna never knew more than that. I don't wish that Mary was somewhere else. I know that there, Natalie is whole. And I know that the time will come when I will finally know them all in the form God intended from the start. And that is comforting.
Meanwhile, what about us? We're left here to deal with those final moments. Some moments are more peaceful than others. We are trapped in this place, where memories are vivid and pain is sharp. Where we have to find some way to keep living - even if those memories paint pictures in our mind every time we close our eyes. It's up to us to choose whether we'll let it push us away from God. In time, we'll be stronger for it - most of us know that. Meanwhile, what do we do?
My answer isn't profound. It's not helpful. It isn't a salve to bleeding hearts, and it won't crack stoney anger. But it's something we can really do. A tangible, physical action. We keep on keeping on. We get up in the morning. We go to work, or to school. We clean our home. We read our Bible. We go to church. We love our family. We pray. We worship. And we trust... we trust God to get us through. We trust that He's not left us ill-equipped. We trust that we really do have what we need. We trust that His Words are true. And we do it all again tomorrow.
Eventually, we find that we're a little "better" than we were before. The death of our loved one has forced us to contemplate our own demise - and to get things "right" with God and those around us.
Over the next several months, I'm going to be using this blog to sort some things out for myself. I ask that you be kind with your comments, and realize that this isn't being done so much for you as it is for myself. I'd do it privately, but I hope that by allowing readers to come along, I can maybe help some of you.

Broken.

Today, I am broken. I am hurting. I am sad. I am feeling hopeless. I feel alone. My best friend, after my husband, has been ripped from my life. I didn't get to say good-bye. My gramma is no longer here. She's gone. For real. The greatest woman I've ever known - life is snuffed. Now, the hard part is figuring out what we will do with grampa. He can't live alone. I don't know how we can help him out... just so hard. In some ways, if they'd both gone, at least neither would be lonely. But at the same time, I am not ready to loose one of them, much less both.

And while people assure me that it isn't so, I feel at least partly responsible. Why didn't I ask them to stay a little longer on Wednesday? Why didn't I pray for their safety? Why did I have to have knee surgery at all? If it wasn't for that, they wouldn't have been on that part of the road. And yet, they were. And now look... our family has been wrent, torn, broken. I'm not the only one who can't picture life without her. Seems to consist primarily of emptiness, grief, sorry, and tears.

So tonight I am broken over the fact that I did not do my job - I didn't show her how much she was loved. I was too selfish. Now all there is for it is to help grampa, and to make sure I show up in heaven to be with her again.