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A Mother’s prayers – still before God

Three of our grandchildren were living with us.

It was a joyful time, in the midst of a sad time.

Bedtimes were  part of the joyful time – a time of quiet talk – a time of prayer – an assurance of love. For Kaylee, the youngest, it included a time of singing. It was a song I had composed, just for her:

Sweet dreams, my Kaylee Joy;

sweet dreams to you.

Dream about rainbows,

dream about sunshine,

dream about teddy bears, too.

And as she fell asleep, my singing changed to humming, and the humming diminished as I tucked her blankie around her and tiptoed out of the room.

It was during one of those times of humming that the memory came.

Just two musical tones of my humming brought the memory – tones of a first, then down to a fifth. (You musicians know what I mean!)

With those two tones, I saw her – my mother.

She was young. Her hair dark, short, parted on the side, and wavy. I was a baby – how old I don’t know, but young enough that I was still in her arms. I looked at her through baby eyes. I saw my chubby forearm and hand. My hand was touching her soft cheek. And she was singing:

When I pray, I will pray for you,
For you need His love and His care.
When I pray, I will pray for you,
I will whisper your name in my prayer. 
At the close of the day, when I kneel to pray,
I will remember you.
You need help every day, this is why I pray,
And I will remember you.  
When I pray, I will pray for you,
For you need His love and His care.
When I pray, I will pray for you,
I will whisper your name in my prayer.
 
 

I knew the entire song – one I hadn’t heard sung in years, but now I heard only the first of it because, you see, the memory was so short. Perhaps only seconds. But long enough to place me back in my mother’s arms – to remember her holding me, singing to me, loving me.

The memory suddenly poured from my eyes and flowed down my cheeks.

I was glad Kaylee had fallen asleep. I left her bedroom and cherished the ever-so-brief thoughts, thanking God for that special reflection.

And I’ve since thought more about the words to that old hymn. Mama prayed for me. My faith first lived in her (2 Timothy 1:5).  And her prayers for me are still worship before the Lord God (Revelation 5:8, 8:4).

When their mothers had gone to be with the Lord, both my friend, Becky, and my cousin, Sherri, shared their feelings of emptiness with me. Besides their normal feelings of grief and loss, they both said, “I feel like my most faithful prayer warrior is gone.”

When my time came, and my mother was gone, I understood. I felt much the same as Becky and Sherri, until I realized that my mother’s prayers were still powerful and alive before God. A golden bowl holds the incense, which are the prayers of the saints, and the smoke of that incense continues to rise before God. I was encouraged and in turn, encouraged Becky and Sherri with that insight from God’s Word.

Let it also encourage you, my friend. Gain strength in that knowledge, my friend. Your mother’s (and/or grandmother’s) prayers are still before the Lord God. The fragrance of those prayers continues to rise  up to God, as sweet worship to Him!

And to me, it’s as though she’s still singing,

When I pray, I will pray for you,
For you need His love and His care.
When I pray, I will pray for you,
I will whisper your name in my prayer.
~~  ~~  ~~
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I miss them both so much I could cry.

I miss them both so much I could cry.

Yes, I miss them.

And yes, I cry.

March 4 and April 4 were the dates.

The first year was difficult; grief coupled itself to other pain; I grieved with an already broken heart. But new life came near the end of that first year: Luke and Jackson — and  their beautiful little lives evidenced the heritage started by the two who had gone. But the enemy, who steals, kills, and destroys, came and stole a chunk of that new life from our little Luke. Grief worsens when one is beaten down.

During the second year, the grief lifted just enough that I could breathe without pain. I found comfort in the Word I had known for years. I trusted in its promises. I saw our Lord stop by the whipping post. I saw the stripes on His body – one, for baby Luke. I believed “by His wounds, we are healed.”  I remembered His suffering and His death on the cross. I saw it as amazing grace. I remembered it with communion. I learned to trust and believe.

Now I’ve entered the third year, and I have hope. Much hope. I’ve learned that the period of mourning should be limited – for my good. Little by little, I’m letting the grief go. I’m trusting in the great Comforter – in His love, His grace, His finished work, His mercy, His promises, His healing for Luke, and His healing for my family.

This third year begins in the spring – not by coincidence, but by God’s plan and by His mercy.

Spring is here, and Spring brings new life that abounds in every direction – north, south, west, and east.

I step out of my house and look to the north. The cherry tree buds. Grass, beaten by the worst winter, shows signs of healing, signs of green, as my soul my body, beaten by grief and pain, bask in the sunshine, warmth, and renewal of spring.

I look to the south and see a yellow house where a renewed and restored family now lives in the house of the two who are gone — the house steeped in heritage and love. I see evidence of those promises I read and believed. Evidence of His mercy, His forgiveness, His restoration, His grace.

I look to the west and see a beautiful sunset, knowing that His mercies will be new in the morning, reminded of His faithfulness.

But it’s when I look to the east that I find the greatest hope. I look into the blue eastern sky and know that’s where I’ll see my Savior.

Where I’ll meet those I’ve lost.

Where the grief and pain will be gone.

Where the enemy is no more.

Where every forever day will bear new life.

Where hope will be manifested.

And where I’ll never remember the dates, the grief, the pain.

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Time is not the healer.

I’m in my kitchen – cooking. My television is set on TCM (Turner Classic Movies), as usual. Spencer’s Mountain is coming on. I haven’t seen it in years, and I love old movies, yet I hesitate to watch it again today. Suddenly I realize why. I know what’s going to happen. The old Papa is going to die, and I don’t want to relive my own sad memories – memories of my own Daddy and Mama’s deaths.

A year and a half have passed. I thought time was to be the healer of this grief. Now I know.Time has been undeservedly credited. Time has not been the healer of this grief.

But I DO watch the movie. I’m watching the old, worn Papa, meandering up on the mountain, tending the family graveyard. I’m remembering my own old, worn Daddy, strolling the family graveyard.

Then the old, worn Papa in the movie dies, and I’m watching the family carry him back to the family graveyard on the mountain side. The Spencer family sings “In the Garden.” Papa had requested it.

Any music stirs my heart, but the tune and the words of that hymn bring years of memories. I hear my Daddy and Mama singing it. I see them them singing it. I see the title, “In the Garden” written in my mother’s scribbled penmanship on an odd little piece of paper and placed in the white envelope marked “my funeral.” I want this sung at my funeral, she had written beside the title. My memories of that hymn culminate in hearing it sung at my mother’s funeral.

And he walks with me, and He talks with me.

And He tells me I am His own.

and the joy we share, as we tarry there,

none other has ever known.

Watching the Spencer family grieve, I briefly relive the funerals of my grief. I revisit the funeral homes. I walk to the graves, following Daddy’s casket covered with the flag, following Mama’s casket, covered with roses and carnations and ferns. As the Spencers say goodbye, I again say goodbye. Pain penetrates me.

With each memory, good or bad, the pain has come – a pain pitted between my heart and my throat. But with each memory, throughout this year and a half, the pain lessens, and in pain’s place, healing comes.

Yes, time is not the healer of my grief.

Memories are the healer of my grief.

 

 

 

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Remembering Sue moving toward her Light

what do we Christians do?

It’s Memorial Day. For days, we’ve been memorializing our fallen soldiers. We’ve visited the cemeteries and placed the flags – decorated the graves – not just of the fallen soldiers, but of ALL our service men and women who’ve passed on – and have also decorated the graves of our loved ones who’ve passed on. Proud to be an American; proud to be free; thankful for our heritage. We remember.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

But today I am also remembering an old friend. I haven’t seen her in a few years. You know how it is. Distance, the busyness of life, varied interests and responsibilities. You think about each other and want to get together, but you can’t. You plan to, but you don’t.  And then it’s too late. That’s how I’m feeling today, and that’s how I’m remembering my friend whom I probably now won’t see again for a long time, because  today, my old friend, Sue, will take her last breath. Today – Memorial Day – I’m remembering Sue.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

In my young adult years, Sue was an inspiration and a mentor to me. We both attended East Algansee Baptist Church. She was a pianist and a vocalist; I was a pianist and a vocalist; but Sue had an undeniable natural talent. Sue was one to learn from, so I listened and I observed and I began to model my own playing and singing  after hers.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

We had a casual joke about the piano bench. Sue warned me: it seemed that if you sat on the piano bench, you ended up pregnant! When I first started playing the piano at East Algansee Baptist Church, Sue had just given birth to twins, Aaron and Anna, completing her and Al’s family of four children! Ina, another keyboardist who “sat on the piano bench” at the church had just birthed Aric, her third child. I had just given birth to Matt, my first, and I “sat at that piano bench,” Sunday after Sunday, and later had Kristen and Amber! “There’s something about that piano bench,” people teased.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

 

SueSue was vibrant and cheerful, even when she faced adversities. I remember when she lost her parents – her Daddy first. Sue was one of the only other adult women I knew who called her father “Daddy,” like I did, so I connected to her loss. Then she lost her mother. She was very close to both. But Sue didn’t dwell in sadness; Sue moved on. Sue always looked toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Mother of four, piano teacher, school teacher, servant of God. As her children grew, she faced life alone for awhile, as a single parent – a single woman. But Sue didn’t dwell in emptiness; Sue  moved on. Sue always looked toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Increasing her educational degrees, increasing her responsibilities, serving others. Sue moved on. Sue always looked toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

The children grew. They flourished – each filled with bits of their mother – her strength, her talents, her joy. The grandchildren came – each filled with bits of their grandma. Today will be a difficult day for those children and grandchildren. And these next days will bring unwanted changes. But one day, they will each move on because they were raised by a strong, courageous woman. They all will look toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

The disease didn’t stop her. Today Sue moves on. Today Sue looks toward the Light. Today Sue will meet that Light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

The light of the world is Jesus – Sue’s Jesus. Her Daddy and Mother’s Jesus. Her children’s Jesus. Her grandchildren’s Jesus. My Jesus.

(John 8:12)

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Vibrant. Cheerful. Daughter. Mother. Grandma. Piano teacher. School teacher. Servant of God. Educated. Strong. Courageous. My inspiration, mentor, and friend.

This world is brighter because Sue was in it.

 

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Mother’s Day

I remember when her mother died. Mom’s heart was broken, and I thought I understood. Soon after, Mom and I and my daughters went to a Mother/Daughter Banquet to celebrate Mother’s Day. I was celebrating her – my mother, and I told her so. But Mom was not celebrating. Her heart was broken from the loss of her own mother, my Grandma Locke. And again, I thought I understood.

Nonetheless, I celebrated her — with my unfailing love and my joy in hers. I shared with her my thankful heart — for her tender care, for her prayers, for the heritage she was giving — and for all she would continue to give — to me and to my daughters.

When honoring a mother, a daughter’s joy cannot be contained. It is contagious to the mother. And it is healing.

Mom

And it brought some healing to my mother. On that day — that Mother’s Day — Mom knew that her own mother’s legacy had not died with her mother. She knew that it continued in herself and in turn, in me, and then, in my daughters.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

So today, Mom, I celebrate your memory, and I continue to honor you and the legacy you have passed on.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

GrandmaToday, I celebrate my Grandma Locke who made sure I had eaten a good dinner and then let me delve into her massive sugar cookies dolloped with jam.

Grandma NuttI celebrate my Grandma Nutt who had birthed twelve children and had dozens of grandchildren yet still had time to hold me in her cushy lap and sing to me.

Today, I also celebrate myself. I celebrate my daughters and daughter-in-law, and I celebrate my granddaughters. And I know the legacy continues. And it is quite healing.

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“No,” she says. “Send someone else.”

The young wife feels unloved by her new father-in-law.

She is of a different Christian denomination. Of a different family background.

She tries to please.

But she’s rejected.

She’s not good enough.

She is shunned. Her children are shunned. Her heart is broken.

The pain presses in to the depths of her soul.

~~   ~~  ~~  ~~

It’s years before the healing comes.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The healing comes through faith – a faith only the size of a mustard seed – so small she didn’t know it was there.

Faith comes from hearing . . . and the message is heard through the word of Christ . . .

 

She reads. She listens. To the word of Christ. It speaks.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The Word  “penetrates . . . and judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.”

 

The healing comes through that Word of God – penetrating and judging her thoughts and her attitudes.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The Word says, “You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self . . . to be made new in the attitude of your mind and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.”

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

 The Word says, “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make very effort to keep the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace.”

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

 The Word says, “Be imitators of God; be filled with the Spirit.”

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The Word brings healing and the healing brings love – love between a daughter-in-law and a father.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The Word says, “Now you are light in the Lord. Live as a child of light . . . goodness, righteousness, and truth.”

 

No longer does it matter who was right or who was wrong – what had been said or what had been done.

Her soul is free from the pain. In pain’s place is love with its goodness, righteousness, and its truth.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

More years go by. Years of love.

The Word says, “Make the most of every opportunity.”

 

And at the end, she is chosen for the opportunity.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

It is a cold February day. The father is old. His health is worsening; he is giving up.

Don't let fears . . .God speaks to her. Go, He says. Talk to him about Jesus.

“No,” she says. “Send someone else.”

But again, God says, Go. Talk to him about Jesus.

 

 

And so she goes and speaks to the father. And on that cold February day, the Son shines through the window of the father’s hospital room, as he confesses his faith in the Lord Jesus.

Where two or more are gathered . . .

 

 

And the next day, the family gathers around the father and says, Goodbye,

while Jesus says, Welcome.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Scripture from NIV:

Romans 10:17

Hebrews 4:12

Ephesians 4:23, 24

Ephesians 4:2, 3

Ephesians 5:1, 8, 9, 16, 18

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And now it is a Wednesday . . .

It was a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April. The sun was shining. Evidence of spring saturated the outdoors and permeated the halls of Maple Lawn. As I neared her room, I saw the hospitality “cart” outside her door – a lovely collection of cookies and orange juice, coffee and fruit – a “notice” that the family would need sustenance – as we would watch and wait.

Several of us were there – my sister and brother, some cousins, my aunts  and uncle. We went in and we went out. Heads slowly shook in sadness and in heartbreak. Aides and nurses came in and stood by her bed. They cried. We could do no more to keep her here with us. My mother was dying.

She’d put up a good fight. She wasn’t created to die, most obviously detected in her steadfast resolve and perseverance. God had originally made her for eternity. It’s the story of the Garden of Eden and of love and of perfection – of sin and of death. It’s the story of a body that should have been perfect and could have been perfect, but of course, wasn’t. It’s the story of a downward spiral of health problems and a broken spirit that just gave up, especially in the last month.

For years, she had plodded forward – literally plodded forward. Her crippled feet and shrunken stature, stenotic spine and withered muscles, cancered blood and arthritic bones impeded her once vibrant step, year by year, month by month, and day by day. Only one purpose kept her going – Wayne. She couldn’t leave him. He needed her. Til death do us part, they had said, and a promise is a promise. And the love grew stronger than the promise. So she loved him and served him until the day he didn’t need her any longer. And that day was one month before.

Christmas 2011 Mom and Dad

So it was a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April, one year ago now.  And I needed that lovely offering of sustenance on the hospitality cart, as I watched and waited and sang to her and whispered sweet memories in her ear, and finally observed her right hand lift to meet His as the Lord took her home. And in the middle of that Wednesday, the promise of spring and new life was stronger than the heartbreak of holding my Mama’s broken, still body, and my sustenance was found in more than cookies and orange juice, coffee and fruit.

And now it is a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April, one year later. Today, I again need that lovely offering of sustenance – and I find it in God’s Word.

I remember my mother – and I think of faithfulness, of a promise, of unending love, and of perseverance.  I cherish the memory of the one who gave me life – of the one who showed me, through example, her faith in God. I hear her whispering, “You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. . . earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:23-26)

 

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Dear Daddy,

Dear Daddy,

It’s been a year now since that sad Sunday morning when I sat beside you, singing, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus; there’s just something about that name,” while you took your last breath. Larry, Becky, Mama, and I, looked on, Mama holding your hand – our hearts breaking to let you go.

It was the greatest loss I’d ever known.

It was a day I had never wanted to live.

I knelt by your casket and sobbed. As the days passed, I thought I had cried so much that I couldn’t  cry any more, but that didn’t happen.

The crying continued.

For a long time.

At about six months, I reached a turning point in my grief. I missed you just the same, but it didn’t hurt as much – I didn’t cry as much – and I found more joy in the memories.

But as this March 4 approached, one year later, that past Sunday morning became vivid in my mind again – like it was yesterday. My thoughts and prayers have been on my new grandbabies – two precious boys born since you left us – babies you would just love to see – babies you will love to meet someday: little Luke who Kristen’s youngest, and little Jackson, Matt’s youngest. I can picture you admiring each of them, pride in your face. I can see the tears in your eyes when you learn that baby Luke needs surgery. I can hear your broken voice in prayer, crying out to the Father you have trusted since you were young. 

So toay, I reach in my jewelry box and lift out your wedding ring,  sliding it onto my necklace chain.  And I wear it close to my heart through these days of delivery and surgery and tumult and joy. And it comforts me to know my Daddy is near and that your prayers are still in a jar, going up as incense before our God. And I thank God for your faithfulness. But I mourn your loss.

So you’ve been on my mind a lot now, Daddy, one year later, and I’m wondering if or when the pain of losing you will ever go away. At first, a year ago, I thought, It won’t be long until I’ll see him again. The Lord will come soon. But now it’s been a year – a long year, and it seems like a long time before I’ll see you again, and I’m yearning for you.

I’m remembering a Daddy who made Christmas fun and who gave me beautiful Valentines.

I’m remembering a Daddy who brought us running when you emptied the noisy change out of your pants pockets on Friday evenings after work.

I’m remembering a Daddy who sat at the table late in the evening and ate Mom’s homemade bread soaked in cold milk.

I’m remembering a Daddy who worked all week long – then spent cold winter Saturdays cutting, hauling, and stacking firewood to heat the big house through the week ahead.

I’m remembering a Daddy who bought a new camera to take pictures of his daughter, the homecoming queen.

I’m remembering my tender-hearted Daddy who mourned the loss of his mother, and father, and brothers, and sisters, and brothers in law, and sisters in law, and on and on – a very compassionate man whose heart ached for those who were hurting, a man who wanted to do good for others – a man very much like Jesus. So I know you understand how I’m feeling now, Daddy.

Daddy 1966
My Daddy
Wayne Olen Nutt
June 26, 1924 – March 4, 2012

So, now, I will continue to miss you and mourn you, but now I will also delight in the memories. I will strive to carry on those special customs and traditions you began in me and in my family – the love of nature and the simple life – the love of family and neighbors and friends – and the love of Jesus and those He came to save.

I will watch Jacob mowing the lawn – your lawn – with the John Deere – your John Deere. I will watch Benny playing in the woods by your lane. I will watch Kaylee riding her bike around your driveway.

And I will watch the eastern sky – and as I watch, I will listen for the shout!  – when our Lord will bring you and  Mama with Him and catch me up to join you – and we’ll all be together again!

Goodbye until then, Daddy, and kiss Mama for me.

With love from your little blonde girl.

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A blessing and a curse

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. 2 Corinthians 1:4

God used so many people to comfort me – close friends, family, acquaintances, neighbors, high school friends.  God comforted me so that I can comfort others. I hope to. Comfort others.

My friend is hurting. Her mother passed away. Her mother was her best friend. My friend is an only child. Mother and daughter were as close as seems possible. I wrote her a note of sympathy. In that note, I called her relationship a blessing and a curse. A blessing because of the many wonderful years of memories. A curse because it makes the grief and pain of that loss so much greater.

I used that rhetorical phrase because I have experienced both the blessing and the curse.

The blessing of being so close to my parents, both my mother and my father – the blessing of living close to them, our children back and forth between our homes, often worshipping, working, and vacationing together. The blessing of long life – many years to love and enjoy them – many years of experiencing their love for me.

The curse doesn’t come until the end of the long, blessed life. The curse comes when the suffering begins, and you suffer with the parent, for the parent. The curse comes when he/she passes away and the pain and grief seem unbearable.

~~  ~~  ~~

Everyone doesn’t know the curse. I once spoke with a woman whose father had passed away. She said she hadn’t shed a tear! I sat, dumbfounded,  listening to her. I didn’t judge her. I was happy for her that she hadn’t suffered grief – that she hadn’t suffered the curse, but sad for her that she hadn’t experienced the blessing!

 

 

~~ ~~  ~~

The great hope for the believer is that the curse eventually dies. Because God IS the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, the curse dies, but the blessing remains. And the blessing grows and develops, like a beautiful summer flower, with the expectation and hope of eternal life.

~~  ~~  ~~

 The blessing of eternal life – forever  to love and enjoy them – forever of experiencing their love for me.

My friend, I write this for you, today. May you find comfort in the arms of the Father of compassion.

~~  ~~  ~~

Study the Word: Psalm 119: 76; Isaiah 41:10; Psalm 46:1

Pray the Word: Oh, God of compassion and of comfort, may your unfailing love be my friend’s comfort today. Strengthen her, help her, uphold her. Be her refuge and strength.

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Dear Mama,

Dear Mama,

Your birthday was last week. I thought of you, celebrating your birthday in heaven. Happy Birthday, Mama. If you had been here, Larry and Becky and I would have brought a cake to you and celebrated. You would have been 88 years old!  I would have loved to have you here to celebrate. I miss you, Mama.

I looked through your purse the other day, Mama. Read every little note you had written, cherishing your handwriting, the handwriting that we always laughed about together – scratchy!. I browsed through one of your diaries, the one from 2003, wishing we could be back there again, spending time at your Florida house. Every once in awhile, I look in the mirror and catch a glimpse — of you! I haven’t erased your messages on my answering machine, Mama, but I haven’t been able to listen to them, either – for such a long time now. I think I’ll try again in a few days. As much as it hurts, I want to hear your voice again.

I bet you miss me and you feel badly for all I’ve been going through. If you were here, you would have worried so, and I didn’t want you to worry. But oh, how I long to have you hold me in your arms. Now you understand how things are — here — and there — and what’s best. How the Lord  really works things out for good for those of us who love Him. (You really understand Romans 8:28, now, don’t you?)  Speaking of the Word, do you read it there? Do you speak it? Or sing it? Or since Jesus is the Word, does He just totally indwell you? Wow! It’s awesome, Mama. You must love it there. Well, anyway, I’ll bet you really DO miss me – you just don’t miss being here – even though you loved the place — the country, the yellow house, the garden, the land.

Speaking of the yellow house, Mama, it’s almost time for Amber to move in. Isn’t that amazing? Of all the grandchildren, she’s the one who will love it the most — will love living there — will love the country, the yellow house, the garden, and the land. She’s the one who will love watching the deer and the turkeys. Well, anyway, today, Jake and Jesse’s cousin moved most of Amber’s things from the storage unit. I’ve been cleaning and getting things ready. I want to have a cloth on her kitchen table. I think she’ll cry to walk into the house and know it’s hers! She’ll have to live there by herself for awhile; then the kids will join her. What a blessed day that will be! But most awesome will be when Jesse joins her. They’ll be a whole family again!

The yellow house was painted; I was so careful to select just the right yellow, and I think it’s perfect! Then I had Jim put all the spindles on the porch rail – the spindles that have sat in the granary for about 30 years. They’re back on the porch were they belong!

And oh how pretty the new porch light looks! I occasionally leave it on overnight – just so I can look over there and see the light. Reminds me of you — of you expecting someone to drive in. Just to think of the years you left the porch light on, waiting for Larry, or for me, or for Becky! Little did I know then that I would do the same thing with my children, and now, Amber will do the same with her children – right back in your house — the yellow house.

And as much as you loved the yellow house, Mama, I’ll bet you don’t really miss it, either. I’ll bet God has given you a new one in heaven – or prepared it for you to have when he takes us all there together. And I’ll bet that yellow house (the one in heaven) has the open stairway you always wanted — and the summer kitchen with the green and cream colored cook stove. And Daddy shares that yellow house with you! Wow!

Can you see us here Mama? Do you know about our new baby Luke? Mama, please touch the hem of the Lord Jesus’ garment in behalf of little baby Luke. Ask our Lord to heal baby Luke. And ask Him to bless our baby boy still in Lynette’s womb. Two new babies, Mama. Two more to fill the empty spots you and Daddy left.

I’m so happy for you, and I can’t wait to be with you and Daddy there someday. Hug Daddy for me. I miss him so much. Tell him I’ll write him soon.

You’re both with our Savior, Mama. What peace you must finally have! That peace is just about beyond my comprehension. I’m always striving for it here – I write about it sometimes. It’s so difficult to be steadfast, but I keep trying. As much as I look forward to seeing you both, I know the first and foremost joy will be seeing my Savior, Jesus. I can only imagine!

(Click here for the link to I can only imagine . . .)

“I can only imagine what it will be like

when I walk by your side.

No more pain. No walker. No wheelchair. 

I can only imagine what my eyes will see

when your face is before me.

I can only imagine; I can only imagine!

Surrounded by your glory, what will my heart feel?

What did your heart feel, Mama?

Will I dance for you Jesus, or in awe of you be still?

I’ll bet your danced, didn’t you, Mama?

Will I stand in your presence, or to my knees will I fall?

Will I sing hallelujah, or will I be able to speak at all?

I can only imagine; I can only imagine!

I can only imagine when that day  comes

when I find myself standing in the Son!

I can only imagine when all I will do

is forever, forever worship you!

I can only imagine; I can only imagine!” (Mercy Me)

Some day, Mama, some day.

I’ve thought of you so much today, Mama. I miss you so much. I’ll write again after I listen to your voice again on the answering machine.

With love,

your honey girl.