I have two or three “big” blog posts I’ve been working on for a while now, but every time I go back to them there’s so much to say I can’t seem to do it. The unfinished posts don’t have any bad news or for that matter, anything that’s mind-blowing, but they mean a lot to me. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time getting the words out in black and white. They feel like such deep things.

Anyway, hopefully before Christmas I’ll get them done and then I’ll see what I always do, that the things that seem to loom huge in my mind always get that way because I’ve ignored or overthought them.

For today, I thought I’d share some photos of people and places that warm my heart.

The photo below is my youngest daughter Sara, who took a five week trip right after Christmas. She traipsed solo around France, Portugal, the Netherlands and Israel, and made me jealous the whole time. I dream of solo travel and have this big month-long trip to the U.K. all planned out in my mind, which I hope will be a reality before I’m too old. I so enjoyed all the photos Sara texted me almost every day, and this one was from a bicycle tour of Paris:

My oldest daughter Sharon joined Sara in early January for a week in Paris. They biked, ate, took the Seine River cruise at night, toured the Louvre, and sent pictures back of all the unique and delicious cafe meals they ate. Below, Sharon is standing in front of a hotel in Paris with her (almost) last name:

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (meaning northeastern Minnesota), my middle daughter had begun rehearsals for a play she was in at our local playhouse. I guess You Can’t Take It With You is an oldie but a goodie, first a play and then a movie in the late 1930s. I didn’t know the story but when I went to see the play last week I loved it. The play was so funny and quirky, and since Carolyn was one of the players who made the audience howl, I had to do the proud mom thing and tell the people around me (at intermission) that that young woman was my daughter. She played two characters, and below you can see her as The Grand Duchess Olga Katrina in the purple. You can click to enlarge photos if you like.

Imagine my awe and delight when I got this photo by text from Sara:

That is the real secret hiding place in the home of Corrie ten Boom in Haarlem, Holland. Sara took a train from Paris to Amsterdam and then to Haarlem, so she could tour the Ten Boom house museum.

This is Sara actually crawling out of the hiding place. What a chance of a lifetime! That’s another trip I’d love to take someday. After studying The Hiding Place this last summer with several friends, seeing this home where God’s love changed so many lives would be a dream come true.

This sweet and beautiful girl is Vivienne, my fifth-born grandchild. She is eleven, will be in middle school next year (sob!) and I want to stop the hands of time because I won’t be able to take it. Vivie loves science facts, and a few months ago when we were driving, she asked from the back seat, “Grandma, do you think that infinity has mass?”

I told her I had never considered whether or not infinity had mass, but my guess was no. Gah. Vivie is a gifted artist, a thinker extraordinaire, and loves and takes delight in her little sister Miriam and dogs Frances and Walter.

I have a special weekend planned for my two foster gals, so that’s all for now. I hope your weekend is a good one.

“Restlessness and impatience change nothing except our peace and joy.

Peace does not dwell in outward things, but in the heart prepared to wait trustfully and quietly on him who has all things safely in his hands.”

–Elisabeth Elliot

*         *         *         *         *

Michael moved to heaven two years ago today. He packed lightly for the move, leaving all his clothes and toys and various belongings here on earth. He even left his body here.

His clothes have been given to family members, donated to others who needed them, and a few still hang in our closet. I don’t see a need to say goodbye to them yet. People ahead of me on this journey tell me I will know when it’s time to clear everything out, and that has been helpful. Today I still want his jeans and shirts hanging nearby.

His man toys were happily given to people who could use them. I gave his fishing boat to his best fishing buddy Steve West, who regularly catches walleyes from the sixteen-foot craft on Boulder Lake. I gave his Yamaha 4-wheeler to his brother-in-law Joe, who loves the snowplow attachment it has. I gave his snowmobile to his friend Jeff Schilling, who graciously stored it for us when it wasn’t in use. I gave his truck to a dear son-in-law who needed some four-wheel drive transportation in our snowy climate. And that son-in-law gave it to another dear son-in-law recently, who needs it for hauling. It seems so right that all these items which could have been sold, instead belong to people Michael loved.

I’m so thankful Michael doesn’t need his earthly body anymore. It was a pretty nice body, and as his wife, I should know. It was strong and muscled, hardworking and active, faithful and dependable. That body provided for our family, held me close, knelt beside me to pray, shoveled snow, held babies, and filled a space in our lives that seems so huge now. When you lose someone you love, you come to experience that their absence can feel like something actually present in itself. Michael’s absence fills our home and my heart.

I visit Michael’s grave regularly, and it brings me comfort, even joy, to picture his earthly body clothed in a suit, in that wooden casket below the grass. It doesn’t seem morbid to me at all, because this is the order of things. I suppose if I didn’t believe in Jesus and the resurrection He promises His followers, then the thought of Michael’s precious body in a box underground would be a terrible thing to ponder. But that body of his was like the outer coat of a seed. When a seed is planted in the earth, the seed coat breaks down and opens, and truly miraculous new life comes forth. I know this is what has happened with Michael’s body. Yes, it will break down over the decades, but it is no more useful to him now than the outer parts of a seed are to an oak or a maple tree. The Parkinson’s disease and the Lewy Body Dementia that caused his brain and muscles to malfunction are still in that grave. No illness or disease is allowed where Michael has gone.

“We know that when these bodies of ours are taken down like tents and folded away, they will be replaced by resurrection bodies in heaven—God-made, not handmade—and we’ll never have to relocate our “tents” again. Sometimes we can hardly wait to move—and so we cry out in frustration. Compared to what’s coming, living conditions around here seem like a stopover in an unfurnished shack, and we’re tired of it! We’ve been given a glimpse of the real thing, our true home, our resurrection bodies! The Spirit of God whets our appetite by giving us a taste of what’s ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts so that we’ll never settle for less.

That’s why we live with such good cheer. You won’t see us drooping our heads or dragging our feet! Cramped conditions here don’t get us down. They only remind us of the spacious living conditions ahead. It’s what we trust in but don’t yet see that keeps us going. Do you suppose a few ruts in the road or rocks in the path are going to stop us? When the time comes, we’ll be plenty ready to exchange exile for homecoming.”  –– 2 Corinthians 5:1-8, The Message

Even though I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that two years have passed, and I will never see Michael again on this earth, I do experience grief and good cheer simultaneously. I’m so thankful for the way the Lord has seen me through.

For those of you who haven’t seen these treasures, here are a couple of links:

Click here for our daughter Sharon’s unforgettable, hilarious, touching eulogy at Michael’s funeral.

Click here to see our daughter Carolyn and her husband Jeremy sing Psalm 84 so beautifully at Michael’s funeral.

Click here to see the marvelous slide show (with our three favorite songs) played at Michael’s funeral.

Yesterday at the senior grief support group I attend, a friend shared how she once read these words of condolence: “I’m sorry for your temporary separation.” I love that. What a perfect, hopeful thing to say to someone who’s grieving.

Today, as I recall how dark and life-changing and glorious and painful and wondrous February 9, 2015 was, I am missing my husband Michael. I miss him with hope and with cheer, mingled in with the loneliness and tears.

Thank you for stopping by, and may God give you His hope and good cheer today…