Christian Author and Speaker
Marion L. Nutt
May 18, 1920 – April 28, 1943
I never knew my Uncle Marion, yet my throat tightens, and tears roll down my face whenever I look at pictures of him, read his letters from war, or place a flower on his grave.
Perhaps it is because he reminds me of my father. They shared such a resemblance. Or perhaps it is because sometimes I try to place myself in my Grandma’s shoes – having five sons in the war at the same time
Daddy and Mama bought the big yellow house when I was 13 months old. Surrounded by red barns, white board fences, chicken coops, and corn cribs, the house sat on 80 acres of fields, pastures, and woods, bordering a creek. They paid $10,000 for it. Grandpa Nutt said they’d never live to see it paid! But he was wrong.
I almost tossed it away – it looked so insignificant, written with a purple crayon, personalized with my favorite drawings: a tree on the front and a swing set on the back. But evidently it was not insignificant to her, as she had written on the back, “Had been away over the weekend when Kathy made this,” then tucked it away in the cedar chest, along with Valentines, newspaper clippings, and report cards. 
I’m wondering where she had gone that weekend, as I don’t remember my mother ever being away from home!
She often baked macaroni and cheese – using those big chunks of colby and large elbow macaroni. Homemade bread. Sunbeam Rolls. Beef Roasts with potatoes. Warm custard when I was sick.
She laundered my clothes.
She tucked me in at night with hugs.
She held me and sang soft sweet songs like “Go Tell Aunt Tabby”and “Bye Baby Bunting.”
I knew her unconditional love. I never questioned it. I was enveloped in comfort and security.
It’s no wonder I missed her, wherever she had gone that weekend.
And it’s no wonder I miss her now.
I wish it was just for the weekend, but now it’s been eight long years. I miss the macaroni and cheese, her soft hugs, the sound of her voice, and a thousand other things.
Since that note to my mother so long ago, I’ve changed the spelling of my first name, and now I always use a blue, medium point pen instead of a crayon. I never draw trees on my notes or letters any longer, and I prefer writing on lined paper. But I might just write another purple crayon message on plain white paper, fold it, and on the front, write, “To Mother.” The message will be simple. Only a few words will change:
Then I’ll tuck it in the same cedar chest and hope that miraculously she’ll receive it up in heaven.Dear Mama,
I will be glad to see you again. I am lonesome for you.
From,
Kathi
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He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart:
I put her to bed, as usual. Well, really, with a bit more tenderness, a bit more time–reading, laying, singing, snuggling. But she is still quite unsettled when I leave her bedside, and shortly after, I hear her behind me in the living room.
Quietly.
“Nana, can I lie in your bed?”
“Sure, honey.”
I follow her down the hall. She steps up onto the little white stepping stool and up up up on to the big, soft mattress. And then I see the tears.
“I miss my mommy.”
I wipe her tears.
I lie beside her, cherishing her soft hair rubbing my cheek, breathing in its sweet, innocent scent.
Later, after she is sound asleep, Papa carries Kaylee back to her own bed.
I awaken in the night. My heart aches. I miss her mommy too. And I know a bit of the pain my precious daughter is going through. She shared it with me months ago, shortly after the arrest. Now I know that tonight, she lies on her cot, in her cell, cold and lonely. My throat makes a foreign noise. I try to hold back the sob, knowing that when it starts, it doesn’t stop for a long time. I pray for her in a whisper – a whisper I know my Papa hears.
Months ago, after the arrest, on the 9th day, we brought her home–from that cell, from that cot–for one night before recovery began. She wanted her own bed– her old bed. The comfort of home.
Now I want the comfort of my Papa’s bed. I want that comfort for my daughter, and for her daughter, Kaylee. I want that comfort for all of us and for all others who are hurting.
I find it. I find it in the Word that is near me!
He gently tends me like a shepherd tends his flock. He gathers me in his arms and carries me close to his heart.
I might be unsettled for awhile, but I know that as I rest in his arms, close to His heart, I’ll find that comfort.
Further Reading: Isaiah 40:11; Psalm 91:1; Matthew 11:28; Romans 10:8
As you read the above post, you might connect. Some of you have or are presently raising your grandchildren. Some of you have or have had a son or daughter incarcerated. Some of you agonize, watching your own little ones unsettled and distressed, often unable to sleep. Take a verse or two and personalize it for yourself. Speak it over and over and over . . . His Word is powerful. And it’s near you.
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Thursday
Yesterday was a tough day.
I can’t imagine facing a day of my life without her . . .or a day without sobbing.
Passersby stopped their cars. Some actually drove in the big circle driveway, walked up the steps to the porch, and knocked on the kitchen door.
“May we look at your flower garden?” they asked.
Daddy’s and Mama’s garden was massive, stretching between the mown lawn and the corn field, its woven artistry of greens and reds and yellows visible from every south window of the old yellow house. It abounded with fruits and vegetables – strawberries in June, green beans in July, sweet corn in August, and pumpkins in September. But at a distinct time of the hot Michigan summer, the garden was amass with papery-petalled blooms: beautiful red poppies.
Daddy’s and Mama’s lives paralleled that garden. Like their garden, their lives were brimming with ever-bearing vibrancy – of honor and service to God!
Those seasons were times of sunshine and rain. Of planting and reaping. Although well-remembered, they were summer of times long passed.
Today, nothing remains of the beautiful flower garden or of the vivid red poppies. For a few years, a little stem, here and there, popped up, but now, withered stubble covers the ground where the poppies once bloomed. And like the garden, nothing remains here on earth of the vibrant lives of Daddy and Mama.
“All men [and women] are like grass, and all their glory is like the [poppies] of the field; the grass withers and the [poppies] fall, but the word of our God stands forever.” (Isaiah 40:6,8)
Yes, His word stands forever. It is powerful. It is mighty. It is beautiful. It does not die. It withstands every season, every storm, every fire, and every trial. It is permeated with vibrancy – the vibrancy of life.
So again today, I will open the Word and let it fill me with its unending message. I desire the Word to reflect in my life such vividness that passersby stop and stare, glimpsing God’s glory in all of its beauty.
They asked Daddy and Mama, “May we look at your flower garden?”
I hope they ask of me, “Please tell me about your Jesus I so vividly see.”
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I have been fearful during some of these days of the COVID19
pandemic and isolation. But today I am not frightened.
I have had a significant amount of anxiety during this
COVID19 pandemic. But today, I am not anxious.
Today, I am angry.
I am angry with the thief who is killing and stealing and destroying.
I am angry with the demons who serve him and do his dirty work.
And today, I am sad.
None of these things can happen because of the thief. So today
I am angry, and today, I am sad.
But like any other day – those of fearfulness, anxiety,
anger, happiness, or – like today – sadness, I look to Jesus. And I listen.
He whispers,
“Kathi, don’t let your heart be saddened. Don’t be troubled. I’m preparing everything. I hear you, and I will deliver you all. Now is your time to comfort from afar. I am close to your friends and family in their suffering and loss. I am their comfort. “
So I trust Him: The God of Comfort.
(From Psalm 34, John 14, 2 Corinthians 1)
Our eyes are attentive to our screens, taking in every word, every image. Our hearts are breaking as we watch: Notre Dame Cathedral is burning.
French Catholic Newspaper, La Croix, shows the spire’s collapse on its front page, with the headline: La Coeur en cendres (The Heart in Ashes):
And those words, probably inferring the heart of the church, nonetheless describe our feelings: our hearts are in ashes. We are a suffering people, anyway, our hearts shattered by evil in the world: deliberate killings, deliberate abortions, deliberate hate. Cancer, suffering, disease. We wonder how much more our already-broken hearts can take.
But we keep watching the reports of the fire; we keep listening; we keep hoping.
And we find it. Hope in the final photos – the photos taken after the fire is out – the photos showing what remains. The altar remains, and . . .
. . .the cross still stands! Not only does it stand, but it shines. It radiates. It glows. It reminds us that in this world filled with evil, we have hope – the confident expectation of God’s promises.
Let the cross bring you hope today. Hope in the very purpose of this Holy Week. Hope in Jesus Christ alone, the Savior of the World.
When your world feels fallen, hopeless, remember – the Cross still stands! Jesus suffered for you and for me. The altar remains open; His arms are open, waiting for you to turn to Him.
Today is her heavenly birthday.
Happy Birthday, Mama!
When she passed years ago, just one month after Daddy, I thought I might adjust to life without them. Then I saw your Facebook posts and heard your words, spoken as you hugged me at the visitations, written on your cards of sympathy:
“It’s been ten years, and I miss her every day.”
“My dad’s been gone 18 years and I still cry.”
Suddenly I knew. The pain would never go away. It was frightening, overwhelming, to think of living with this dire grief for the rest of my life. I could not go through it alone.
“Jesus wept.” I knew He was weeping for me – with me. I not only accepted the compassion of this Savior, but I pleaded with the Father for it.
Then I started digging. Old photos. Memories. Aprons. Dishes. Walking sticks. Blankets. The sight of his binoculars caused a swelling in my throat; the smell of her Ponds Cold Cream drew flooding memories down my cheeks. How can I ever get past this?
I shared my grief with others. They understood. I was not alone.
Many had grieved. Like me. Looking at them from the outside, I hadn’t realized that their insides had once been heavy and weighted. Like mine. Would I ever appear normal on the outside again, like they did?
I did not find comfort in those common feelings of grief. But I did find comfort in knowing that I grieved much because I had loved much. I had years of memories to carry with me on the lonely, painful path ahead, the path I’m still traveling today. Are the memories worth the pain? Is the pain worth the memories?
I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. I’ve stopped trying to distinguish grief and sorrow from mourning. I’ve stopped trying to figure out what stage of grief I’m passing through. And I’ve stopped feeling guilty or shameful that I’m still grieving after all these years – that others have more reason to grieve than I.
It is what it is. A broken world full of suffering and full of grieving people. Not by God’s design but because of the sin of the first created.
It is what it is. A beautiful life, speckled with pain and grief.
But He is what He is. A beautiful Savior who weeps with us and says, “It won’t be long. I’ll gather you. Let me comfort you until then.”
Until then, Mama, ride your beautiful Buckskin mare down the lanes of the farm. And have a Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mama.
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It’s been three years since both of my parents passed. They were old; they had health problems; but those details did not lessen my loss. After their passings, I looked back upon their last minutes, their last days, and their last years. I saw the fulfillment of God’s word to both my Daddy and my Mama:
“I will be your God throughout your lifetime until your hair is white with age,” He said. “I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (ESV)
And I’m so thankful He did – care for them, carry them, and save them.
As I think about those last years of their lives, I wish I had been a bit more patient with them, a bit more loving to them, and a bit more compassionate for them. In other words, a bit more like the Father.
If you still have your parents or grandparents, how will you carry them along until their “hair is white with age”?
Loving Lord, thank You for Your faithfulness to me, even through my old age. Help me to be faithful to my parents and my grandparents through their old age.
Isaiah 46:4
Psalm 71:17,18
1 Timothy 5:8
