Three Words to Live By

You've heard the old saying, "It's good to go, and it's good to come home." 

Last week I returned from a road trip of over 1670 miles. I wound my way through the misty mountains of Pennsylvania, passed rows of giant windmills with outstretched arms, and tunneled my way through fields of corn and beans. Family in two mid-western states drew me like a magnet . . . every mile a little closer, every hour an accomplishment. 

My trip was everything I hoped for. 

Barry's siblings, their families, and I all gathered for a long-overdue rendez-vous over lunch. I enjoyed my sister and brother-in-law's warm hospitality where we picked green beans and zucchini from their garden, reminisced over breakfast, and chatted before bed. My youngest daughter and I laughed and talked, visited her workplace and church, and savored the sun at Silver Beach on Lake Michigan. I saw where she rents a room and rides her bike. We walked her trails together. On my last full day, she, my sister, and I picked blueberries in a large dewey patch in the country.

For me, the best parts of any reunion are the conversations. Seems we start out by catching up on the news and seeing whatever is new since last time. Yet, it's the sharing of thoughts and hopes and fears and dreams . . . the sharing of souls . . . that I treasure. 

Sometimes multiple conversations blend together to give us a takeaway that rides the miles home with us, taking root in our hearts and giving us courage to face whatever's next. This time I've come away with three words. Three words to take with me through these next weeks of uncertainty and challenge.

Gratefulness          Faithfulness          Contentment

If you're like me, life's surprise trials  can "throw you for a loop," as my mom used to say. We feel blindsided, panicky even - and find ourselves wondering, "Is this my fault? What could I have done differently to avoid this circumstance? What about the others this will affect? Where is God in all this?" We just want to get back to normal, after all. We want to be healthy, stable, predictable . . . fine. 

But maybe "perpetually fine" is unrealistic. Jesus said, "In this world you will have tribulation" (John 6:33), but He doesn't leave us alone. Can we trust His sovereign yet loving hand? Will we choose to express gratefulness to Him and to the people around us? Will faithfulness characterize our daily walk? Can we learn contentment, regardless? 

These are some of the questions I've been contemplating since coming home. A brochure came in the mail this week with these settling words: "Because God loves us so much, He never allows pain without purpose. He longs for us to run to Him and find shelter, courage, strength, and help in our times of distress. In these moments, we are drawn closer to Him and we begin to understand His working in our lives."

Gratefulness, faithfulness, and contentment. Three words to live by in troubling times.

A Season of Remembering

Could we ever have imagined the realities of the past couple of months? Like it or not, we've learned a whole new vocabulary. We've limited our travels, our work, and our shopping. We've also reached out to others in new ways, using our compassionate and creative energy to cross the barriers to lend support and help.  

For me, it's been a season of recovery . . . and remembering. Last time (April 5th), I wrote about the 17th anniversary of our family's car crash. In addition, as I sat in my recliner with ice on my new hip, I read through some of my late husband's journals. Some pages brought tears to my eyes. Others made me laugh, but every paragraph reminded me of the grace of God in spite of our humanness.

This is also the month to remember my mom (May 1936-August 2013), my parents'  wedding anniversary (63 years today), and the five-year anniversary of Barry's passing (5-15-2015). Made me wonder what I've been doing the past five years! Writing a couple of books, seeing Elisabeth through college, keeping up with my grandsons and their five-star moms (and dads), simplifying, maintaining my home, nurturing relationships . . . and learning, learning, learning all the way. I'm so grateful for God's tried-and-true promises.

I completed a project this past week that brought back multiple memories. I made Elisabeth a quilt (i.e. picnic blanket) from a stack of her saved T-shirts. I cut the shirts apart and squared up each block, then ironed fusible interfacing onto the backs and squared them up once more. The stack of squares and rectangles boasted logos and slogans from elementary school, high school, college, places of employment, our church, a 5K run, and her favorite vacation spot. What stories they told!  

As I stitched, I remembered praying her through many of those chapters, usually coupled with motherly concern and a sense of pride as I cheered her on. The process reminded me of the promise in Philippians 1:6 . . . the promise that we can be confident that He who began a good work will continue . . . developing and perfecting and bringing it to full completion (AMPC). 

I'm learning that when we remember God's intimate involvement in our lives, we can better place our faith in Him when we peer into the fog of an uncertain future . . .  humanly speaking, a future with no guarantees. We can make decisions based on what is and Who is rather than on the fear of the what-ifs. 

I invite you to brew a cup a tea, and take some time to remember. How has God blessed you? In what ways has He given you grace in the past? What promises from His Word will you claim? Let's make this season of remembering a time to also ask God to give us the courage to move forward into the "new normal" of tomorrow.

"Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits."

Psalm 102:2

Remembering the Miracles

Do you remember what you were doing seventeen years ago today?

April 5, 2003 will forever be embedded into my heart - and the hearts of my family. It started out so normal, yet in a matter of minutes our lives changed forever.

Dense fog engulfed us as we strained to see past the front end of our car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The unexpected, eerie haze on a fair day spiked my pulse and revved up my every nerve. … I turned to check on five-year-old Elisabeth in the back seat. In that instant, a crushing blow from behind convulsed us back and forth like rag dolls. … Sickening terror seized me as the life-shattering impact snuffed out hope . . .

Fire. Explosions. Screams. Scraping metal. These were the terrifying sounds that pierced the murky mist around us. Only one thought beat like a drum in my mind: We have to get out of the cr. Out of the car. Out . . . *

This past week I found the box of cards so many caring friends sent our way in the weeks and months following the twenty-three care pile-up. Hundreds of cards. I opened every one, compelled to savor each loving, encouraging message once again. 

Here's one that captured my attention:

April 11, 2003

How can words express what only the heart can speak? Know that you are constantly on our hearts and in our prayers during these difficult days.

"I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me. When I was in distress, I sought the Lord; …  Will the Lord reject forever? Will He never show his favor again? Has God forgotten to be merciful?

"Then I thought, 'I will remember the deeds of the Lord, yes I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will meditate on all your works and consider all your mighty deeds . . .'" (Psalm 77).

Today is a day for remembering the miracles! Humanly speaking, we should never have survived. Only God could've protected my spinal cord, preventing paralysis. Only God could've brought Barry back from a coma that lasted for weeks. Only God sustained us through our long and arduous recovery and the new normal we often found overwhelming.

We're all facing many unknowns. In a matter of weeks, life as we knew it has changed in ways we could never have imagined. The future looks foggy and obscure. Economic and physical recovery seem unlikely. Fear lurks around every corner.

The author of Psalm 77 faced similar feelings so many centuries ago. In his despair, he chose to remember the miracles, to meditate on all God's mighty deeds. It made all the difference.

I invite you to read or reread our story told in Penned Without Ink: Trusting God to Write Your Story. Within its pages, you'll find story after story of God's goodness, and you'll share my journey of learning to trust God in the midst of uncertainty. I've also written a Bible study that will draw you into the Scriptures to dig deeper into the themes of trust. I pray it will be a blessing to you and bring you hope in these trying times.

And on this Palm Sunday, how about taking some time with your family to remember the miracles in your own story!? 





*Page 7, Penned Without Ink.
**Resources available on Amazon.com. Click HERE and HERE for more information.

Reading Between the Lines

For months now, I've eyed that quiet shelf in my office closet, the third one down, with a lifetime of journals and prayer notebooks arranged in order by date. Over the years I've moved them from place to place as we've repurposed and rearranged, but not once did I crack one open to read the chronicles within.  

If you've followed my journey, you're familiar with my occasional yet repeated references to simplifying and downsizing. I've spent the last four years wading through a lifetime of accumulated "stuff," highly motivated by my desire to spare my children the weight of it all.

It's one thing to toss 1984 homeschool catalogs, donate dozens of VHS documentaries, and find teachers and students who gladly receive Latin and Spanish curriculum. It's quite another to decide what to do with decades of handwritten stories. Stories about family, events, celebrations, school days, worries, fears, regrets, life lessons, and well . . . whatever else happened to come to mind on any given day. Memories recorded in black and white . . . someday to be remembered in living color.

On my birthday last September, I decided it was my job to take care of these volumes in one way or another. In March, I finally mustered up the courage to begin. Page after written page, I read. Sometimes I found myself smiling . . . like the time one of the girls danced around the living room singing, "I can read! I can read!" Or when said daughter couldn't decide on which socks to wear to make her "shoes feel good." Or the day she got her head stuck in a chair at school. Another of them dressed up like Polly Pepper, and at Thanksgiving, a native American, complete with fringe and papoose.

I found the record of when we paid off our house and the season we harvested 49 quarts of strawberries and canned umpteen quarts of tomatoes and pickles. I noted the day when Patches the Guinea pig died and how Daddy helped bury him in the garden under a stone painted yellow. I leafed through the celebratory stories of birthdays and end-of-the-school-year-parties, prayers and baptisms, swimming lessons and family outings.

But lest you think our lives were mostly idyllic, my eyes also traveled over pages of weary fatigue, frustration, busyness, uncertainty, and desperate prayers for wisdom and guidance. I scribbled, "God, where are you? I'm trying so hard. Why does it seem I will never be enough? Please take care of my girls." Tears sprang to my eyes as I laid the book down. 

Can you relate?

I happened to mention my bittersweet experience to a friend who parroted back to me what she and I had talked about in times past. "What is true?" she reminded me. "Read your journals as an act of worship as you recall God's work in your life. Let go of the pages that are no longer beneficial." 

An act of worship. Letting go of the If Onlys leaves room for us to read the grace of God between the lines. His unfailing presence. His steadfast love. His promise of redemption. He brought us through those days . . . the learning days . . . the growing days . . . all for His glory. 

It's been good for me to review my life through my own pen. Humbling, really. Words have a way of representing a more accurate picture than memory. All these years later, I find myself worshipping God with a sweeter appreciation for His faithfulness . . . and for His readiness to listen to the broken, hopeful prayers of a mother's heart. 

Behold, I am doing a new thing . . . 

I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.

Isaiah 43:19

Time to Move On?

"Whatever God has called you to go through in His providence, there is always hope."

"It's okay to be marked by the past but not okay to be controlled by it."

"If the past has a grip on you, is it time to move on?"

The pastor had my attention. Seemed to me I'd overcome many fears from the past. Or at least, with God's help, found the courage to do what needed to be done in spite of my demons. Like drive over 600 miles to Indiana to take my daughter to college and then drive home alone.

Our car after the crash in 2003

I'm not sure a person ever quite gets over the panic, the stress, and the trepidation that follows trauma. Nearly sixteen years after breaking my neck in a turnpike pile-up,* I'm relatively calm about driving in good conditions (well, most days), but the fear of fog, slippery roads, heavy rain, and snow still ties me up in knots. I have friends who choose not to drive (or ride) on the freeway at all. I understand. I know firsthand what can happen.

I can manage the necessary visits to see my family (trips to see my daughters and the grandboys and even to visit my late husband's family), but to plan an outing (i.e. road trip) that isn't really necessary still makes me a little nervous--even in good weather. It almost seems irresponsible to me. And that's where the speaker's comments challenged my thinking.

Just a few weeks ago, I booked a bus trip to see the Philadelphia Flower Show with my dad. A big step for me. The next day though, I again found myself wringing my hands with regret. What if something happens? My daughters need me, especially the youngest. I don't have to do this. The risk suddenly loomed large in my mind. Too large.

Perhaps my what ifs reveal fear and lack of trust. And, I might add, a desire for a little control. Yet God has been gentle and patient with me and, little by little, has been teaching me to walk according to His truth in an area that has been challenging. I'm meditating more on God's sovereign, yet gracious, control in all things . . . and the truth of Jesus' words in Matthew 6:27: "And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?" God will lovingly complete the good work He began in my children's lives when I'm here and when I'm not (Philippians 1:6). I want to make responsible decisions, yes . . . yet step by tiny step, I'm gradually experiencing more freedom in "moving on" and letting go of stubborn, even unreasonable, fear.

What about you? No matter what your past looks like, I trust these three thoughts will bring you closer to a God whose promises never expire and whose presence always brings hope.

"If the past has a grip on you, is it time to move on?"

"It's okay to be marked by the past but not okay to be controlled by it."

"Whatever God has called you to go through in His providence, there is always hope."

To read the story. Click HERE.

Last two photos: bing.com/images/free to use

A Fresh Look for Some Old Chairs . . .

Last week's frigid temperatures kept me inside with a project that had been on my list since last fall. I recovered my dining room chairs. I had enough of the same fabric to recover four of the six, and since the fabric is reversible, I just turned two of the old covers over. Much better! Mission accomplished.

As I stapled away using my kitchen counter as a work bench, my mind wandered to the history of the table (with two leaves), chairs, matching china cabinet, and buffet. As the story goes, my great-grandmother purchased the entire set in 1929. Ninety years ago! At that time she was 48 years old and only enjoyed her new furniture for six years before she passed away in 1935, a year before my dad was born. After the Depression, Dad's immediate family moved in with relatives for a time where he remembers seeing the set in the middle room in the upper family flat on Edison Street in Buffalo. 

As a young girl, I remember this same furniture in the same house in the same room, arranged the same way. (Dad and I compared notes over dinner the other evening, drawing out the floor plan and furniture arrangement.) By this time, my great Aunt Anita and her brother, Uncle Freddie, lived there.

Sometime in the mid-80s, while Barry and I lived in Rochester, NY, my great aunt sold the house, and the furniture was given to me. I was thrilled. We hauled the chairs into our front enclosed porch and began the painstaking task of refurbishing the seats, by now in need of repair. Barry removed the tiny tacks and old straw "padding" and nailed thin boards onto each seat frame. 

As a young twenty-something, I had no idea how to cover chairs, so I brought one of the

frames to an old fabric warehouse in Rochester and left with foam, batting, material, and determination. Over the years I've changed the seat fabric many times. By now the chairs creak, the legs look worn, and a few of the wooden frames have grown brittle, yet I've managed to cover the seats by improvising here and there.

If my chairs could speak instead of squeak, what stories they would tell! Six generations of families have sat in them around the old table. . . telling stories over spaghetti dinners, birthday celebrations, and Saturday night suppers. Children wearing bibs have graduated from booster seats. Guests have come and gone. Shared memories keep traditions alive.

I still treasure the times when family and friends gather. Most recently, a ladies' Bible study, my writers' group, and a Moms in Prayer meeting gather around the table on a regular basis, using the same chairs my great grandparents, my grandma, my dad, my children, and grandchildren have used . . . all to the glory of God.

"One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts." Psalm 145:4

Empty Yet Full

Empty . . .

An apt description of the house when the last one leaves after a holiday. Can you relate? No bags stashed here and there. No toys to trip over. No sippy cups in the kitchen sink. No crowded bathroom counters and towel racks. No half-open suitcases. No scattered shoes and boots in the breezeway. No extra cars in the driveway.

And more obvious, no adult children and grandchildren gathered around, playing games, laughing, or eating around the table. All may be calm and bright, but as the emptiness echoes its stillness, I feel the loss.

At the same time, my heart is full . . . full of memories. Talking until 2 a.m. the night my college-age daughter flew in. More hours of talking, talking, talking. Shopping at Kohl's because her internship is right around the corner. Listening to her play the piano and sing. Welcoming the older girls and their families. Catching up. Cuddling a two-month-old and seeing his wide smiles for the first time. Reading stories. Singing carols by a crackling fire. Taking my oldest grandson to see The Nutcracker the day after Christmas. Enjoying a roast beef Christmas dinner, along with my dad and a friend. Playing Jenga. Sharing gifts and stories. Missing those no longer with us.

One family came on Sunday the 23rd and left the very next day due to our three-year-old's bout with vomiting and diarrhea. After a hurried gift opening, we all had tears in our eyes when they pulled away to try to get home, mommy and bucket in the back seat just in case.

Today, I said my last good-bye of the season. Our youngest drove off in her daddy's 2005 Corolla, new wiper blades in place, EZ Pass transponder and GPS attached to the windshield and, just to make me feel better, a few maps tucked in the passenger door pocket. Since 2015, I've babied this car . . . inspections, tires, maintenance . . . because I knew this day was coming, the day when she would drive it back to school in the mid-west. Barry would be proud of her (and all of them) if he were here. 

After a good cry, I got busy. Putting things in order has always been my way of coping. Does it ever get easier? 

As I mopped the bathroom floor and folded towels, I thought about what happened after Mary's encounter with Gabriel. Luke 1:39 tells us, "In those days Mary arose and went with haste into the hill country, to a town in Judah" to visit Zachariah and Elizabeth. Although the Bible doesn't mention Mary's mother, I couldn't help but wonder how she felt when Mary said a hasty good-bye to take a 70-mile trip. Did concern for her daughter's well-being and safety occupy her thoughts? Did she wake up to pray in the dark of the night? 

Somehow this ancient un-named mother gave me courage as I said my own good-byes today. She invested years sharing biblical truth and practical knowledge, then moved out of the way to allow her daughter to follow God's leading. In the same way, I want to be supportive of all three of my daughters. I hope we've given them roots. Now it's time to give them wings (and wheels!). 

Empty? Yes, but with a heart full of thanksgiving and anticipation in a brand new year. 

Some have tried to post comments and have been unable to do so. 

I think the problem has been resolved, so feel free to try again. Thanks for your patience!

Asking the Right Questions . . .

How are you at asking questions?

I grew up in the "telling" generation. We were told what to think more than how to think. Not all bad. What child or teen doesn't need instruction and guidance? I'm grateful for the many "tellings" I received during my growing-up years. They have shaped me in positive ways.

Over time, however, I have also come to appreciate the wisdom of asking questions. 

My late husband, Barry, was a master at question-asking. In going through his papers after his passing, I discovered his secret.

He worked at it. 

I found lists of questions in his office, questions such as:

• What do you mean by ___________?
• How does __________ relate to ___________?
• Why do you say that?
• Can you give an example?
• Let me see if I understand. Do you mean __________ or ___________?
  

He often quoted Stephen Covey: "Seek first to understand then to be understood."

At the Montrose Christian Writers Conference this past July, I picked up Paul Angone's book, 101 Questions You Need to Ask in Your Twenties (and let's be honest, your thirties too) [Moody Press]. It's a book for Millennials, and since my youngest turns 21 in a few weeks, I thought it might be a good read for her.

Before sending it off, I took a look inside. Long story short, I read the whole thing and took nearly eight pages of notes. The premise of the book is this: to be successful, learn to ask good questions. Every question in the book is thought-provoking and helpful. Here are a few that gave me pause:

• Do your friendships help you fly or pull you down?
• When is enough, enough?
• Do your actions back up your ambitions?
• Do I create more or complain more?
• Am I going through my day mindful or mindless?
• What am I going to regret not doing?
• Who inspires me most?
• Everyone leaves behind a legacy. What will mine be?

Today would have been Barry's 62nd birthday. Somehow, on this day, it seems fitting to write about the value of asking good, even great questions. I have a hunch, if he were still with us, he'd take a few notes on Angone's book himself before writing Elisabeth a fatherly note on the title page and sending it to her with love and his best wishes.

Happy Birthday to Penned Without Ink!

Today marks the second anniversary of the release of Penned Without Ink: Trusting God to Write Your Story, an inspirational memoir highlighting the story of our family's near-fatal car crash in 2003. It also shares quiet miracles layered between pain and loss and captures the essence of hope and trust in a faithful God. 

What a journey . . . both the living of it and the writing of it.

So much has happened in these two years . . . 

• A book signing at a local coffee shop, where friends and family came to pick up a copy of the book and offer support. 
• Learning the nuts and bolts of marketing and producing a book trailer. 
• Accepting opportunities to share our story at both local and non-local events. 
• Feeling grateful for story after story of how God, through our story, infused courage into others going through difficulties and trauma. 
• The thrill of three book awards. 
• The process of making Penned an audio book, thanks to LPC and narrator Robin Wasser.
• The development of a leader's guide with reproducible study sheets to assist facilitators to lead group members deeper into the timeless themes of Penned. 
  

I want to thank you for your wonderful support and thank God for His grace every step of the way.

Some have asked what my next writing project will be. Maybe a devotional? We'll see. In the meantime, I'd like to increase my article-writing. I enjoy the challenge of writing an 1100-1200 word piece with one main theme. 

If you've appreciated Penned Without Ink and/or have found the leader's guide and study valuable, would you consider writing an Amazon or Goodreads review? It's a great way to invite others to read the story, and more importantly, to offer encouragement with the timeless truths of the Word of God. Thank you!

What's happened over the past two years for you?

*Photos by Julie Manwarren

Pursuing Perspective

Five states covering over 2100 miles . . . 

A vacation? Mostly - and a college run for the third year in a row!

Photo from PA Grand Canyon Website

There's something about getting away that gives us perspective. We break out of our normal routines and travel to various cities and towns with different geography, different ways of speaking, and different attractions. We often visit with people we don't see very often and hear ourselves summarizing the highlights of the past year. We're introduced to new ideas, recipes, and even health tips. In the quieter moments, we turn the future over in our minds, purposing to make changes to "do" less and "be" more. 

This year, to begin our trip, my youngest daughter and I took a winding detour to visit the PA Grand Canyon. As we stood at one of the lookout points, vultures circled below us. Down, down at the bottom of the gorge a lazy river wound its way around the huge canyon walls. Photos can't begin to capture its essence and grandeur. We felt small, indeed.

Photo of me by Rayan Anaster -

 www.rayananastorphotography.com 

From there we headed to Michigan, Barry's home state, and spent time with his family. Sandy beaches, boat rides, and the dunes at sunset - all interspersed with great conversations - made for a restful time (even if I did need Bonine to push back "that feeling" caused by the waves when the boat was anchored). Sitting here on the beach with the waves lapping at my feet, I again felt small and far away from home, praying for wisdom for yet another season.

Indiana's flat-lands welcomed us as Elisabeth began classes once more. After a tearful good-bye (always!), my dad (who had taken the train to my sister's the week before) and I headed south to visit The Ark Encounter. A wonderful experience. Talk about perspective! Here, too, I felt small - not only because of the tremendous size of the Ark but also in comparison to history and all that has happened. Our visit truly marked a day to remember.

So now, we are all in our respective places . . . back to normal, I guess. But I don't want to just shuffle through my days. I want to live with purpose, remembering my smallness compared to a great big God who has a master plan for this world and yet . . . and yet . . . who cares for our smallest needs with love and compassion here and now. 

Brushstrokes of a Father

My mother would be proud of him. 

Five years ago, ill with cancer and waning in strength, she surprised my dad by asking me to take her to his art show at the Abington Senior Center. His smile showed how much her coming meant to him. He introduced her to his art-colleagues as they walked hand in hand around the room to view the paintings. We still talk about it. She passed away two short months later.

Photo by Ben Freda

Last Sunday, my sister and I made it point to attend this year's art show at the Senior Center. Barb arranged her visit from Indiana so she could attend, and my daughter and her friend also popped in to support "Grandpa." Live music, refreshments, and handshakes all around made it a memorable occasion. Ben Freda from the Abington Journal took Dad's photo and summarized the event HERE.  

Dad uses water colors to create his paintings . . . usually a still life or a scene from nature. At 82 years old, he attends class every Thursday after he has had lunch at my kitchen table and has helped me take my garbage and recycling to the curb. Our Thursday lunches have become a ritual for us, one I look forward to. 

As another Father's Day rolls around, I've been reflecting on Dad's brushstrokes in my life. He's modeled the steady colors of consistency, godliness, and loyalty. His dry sense of humor and funny comments add light to our conversations. His having lived many decades brings perspective to my thinking, and His love for God's Word challenges me to remember what's truly important when "the cares of this world" seem to be calling my name. We've both lost our spouses and understand loneliness and loss, yet we help each other move forward with God's strength and with grateful hearts.

I love you, Dad. Along with Mom, I'm proud of you, too. Thanks for the brushstrokes of character you've painted for me and Barb and for your wonderful example of quiet strength and hope. Happy Father's Day!

Here are a few samples of Dad's paintings, most watercolor:

This scene is done in colored pencil.

Three Years

Armed with a pocket full of Kleenex, I walked up the hill to the Clarks Green Cemetery for the first time this spring. A delightful walk despite the traffic in the late afternoon. The stimulating fragrances of flowering trees, bushes, and lilacs surrounded me as I made my way up and down the hills between the markers, and as always, found myself stooping to read a few of the names and dates of those who have passed on.

I always save Barry's section until last. As the stone came into view, tears stung my eyes. There's something about that first look in the spring that floods my heart with the reality and finality of his death. I settled myself on the ground and cleaned the pine needles and grass clippings off the base. So much has happened in three years. As I wiped my eyes, I realized that I miss him in a different way than when crushing grief nearly swallowed me up and I wondered how I would go on without him. 

Back then I wished he could've helped Elisabeth with her college decisions. I wished he could've dialogued with all the girls and answered their questions. I wished he could've played his role as "Grandpa" to our grandsons, one of whom he never met. I wished he could've weighed in on so many decisions I had to make without him, decisions about the house, a car, our finances. He always seemed to know what to do.

Looking back, I see God's grace standing out bold on the calendar pages of the past 36 months. We made it . . . all this time. But that doesn't mean we didn't feel the ache in our hearts. And now I grieve for him in additional ways. I long for his comfortable companionship and the balance he brought to my life. I miss making his favorite dinner, hearing about his many ventures, and planning this year's garden together.  How often have I wanted to ask his thoughts about my writing and speaking? "Does this make sense? Is this topic relevant? Do these ideas sound okay? What's missing?" 

I feel for our girls . . . as each of them is in a different place now. They would benefit from his knowledge and wisdom - on education, relationships, gardening, parenting, and on and on. We often find ourselves saying, "What would Dad say?" It helps . . . a little.

Before I rose to walk home, I traced my finger over the words under his name: "Life-long Learner; Loved God and Others." Always for the other guy, that's just the kind of man he was! And somehow I gather up the courage to move ahead and "run with perseverance the race marked out for me," grateful for God's new measure of grace every single day.

I love you, Barry. We miss you.