Yesterday my friend Ginny and I drove out to Cloquet, MN (pronounced clo-KAY) to the grad party of of our friend Carey’s son Isaac. Carey is a cook and baker extraordinaire, and I think I should just plan now to stop attending all future grad parties because no one else’s food is ever going to be like hers. Korean pulled pork with soft bib lettuce for wraps and a ginger and cilantro flavored slaw to top everything with. And different Korean relishes. And a dessert table that could have been from the kitchen of a queen. Isaac made a pavlova with rose water and strawberries, and Carey made a rustic apricot tart, a traditional chocolate/caramel/pecan turtle cake, a kind of thick lime custard pie with chopped nuts for the crust, drizzled with a raspberry coulee, and there was homemade lavender ice cream and many other sweet indulgences as well. There wasn’t a bratwurst or bowl of potato salad to be seen. And Isaac, who is a handsome, smart and loving young man, waited on people, cleared plates, fetched more desserts, filled coffee cups, and showed us a glimpse of the man he’s becoming.

Ginny and I had a nice visit too. We talked about Michael and the void he leaves. We talked about a request I bring before God every single day and wonder what His answer will be. We talked about death and old age and God’s grace for both, and I’m betting by now you wish you could have joined in such a lighthearted conversation. Ha.

When I got home I fixed dinner for women and beasts, got into my plaid flannel nightgown earlier than Sharon thinks I should, and clicked on the TV. I have been using the DVR I’ve had for years and never knew I had. I record the occasional old movie, James and Betty Robison’s “Life Today” show, anything Agatha Christie, and shows like “Nova” and “Nature” that often take my breath away.

Last night I happened upon a nature show that spotlighted the unusual mating habits of different creatures. I watched only one, because I was so overcome I had to switch it off when the show moved on to a certain kind of sea lion, whose mating rituals include spurting blood and deeply slashed skin and such violence I couldn’t handle it.

But I’d like to tell you about the mating habits of puffer fish. Are you familiar with puffer fish? I’d heard of them before, but what I saw last night had me gasping, laughing, marveling, and eventually, sobbing and thanking God out loud over and over.

Here’s what little I know. Apparently, off the coast of Japan, scuba divers have long been finding what have been dubbed small “crop circles” in the sand of the ocean floor. Here’s a picture of one:

They decided to set up some underwater cameras to see how these “crop circles” were being formed, and lo, the builders turned out to be a newly discovered kind of small puffer fish.

A little male puffer fish begins work on his circle, hoping to attract a female. It takes him a week of  ’round-the-clock work to complete it, and somehow he knows the best times when the ocean currents won’t come along and smooth his masterpiece away. He swims close to the sandy ocean bottom and uses his little body as a broom, whisking his tail back and forth rapidly and carving trenches and valleys in a perfect circle. He uses his nose to push sand up on the mounded parts of the circle, and will even pick up sea shells with his mouth to deposit them on the top of these mounds, for decoration.

How does he get the circle so perfect? Where are his measuring stick and compass? Could a human being create so perfect a circle by simply using his/her hands without measuring tools?

Then when his circular nest is complete, the puffer fish swims aside and waits. A female puffer fish comes along and inspects the intricately constructed circles and decides which one is most suitable for her eggs. When Mr. Puffer sees that his nest has been chosen, he then gets to work smoothing out the center of the nest. All the grooves in the center are flattened, while Mrs. Puffer watches. She then swims to the center of the circle, lays her eggs, and Mr. Puffer comes and fertilizes them. He grabs her puffer cheek in his puffer lips, and they do a little puffer dance side by side, both sweeping the sand over the eggs to cover and protect them.

You have just got to watch this short video of the whole process.

When the puffer fish segment was over, I sat in my recliner in my living room and sobbed. “Whyyyyyy, Lord?” I thought. “Why have you made such an astounding world, with incredible creatures and magnificent beauty? Why do you blow our minds with the intricacies and delights and quirkiness of what you’ve made? Why have you created animals and fish and plants that go unseen for centuries, and you alone see them?”

I don’t know if I can explain this, but when I see little puffer fish doing what they are created to do, so beautifully, it makes me want to do what I’m created to do. This little film about the puffer fish made me think of another one I loved.

Did you see the footage of the new baby hippopotamus that was born a few weeks ago at the San Diego Zoo? Apparently hippos give birth under water, and newborns have to swim quickly to the surface to get some air, except they aren’t adept at swimming yet, since they’re only one second old when the need for oxygen arises. I watched this video of the little girl hippo, frantically and a bit inefficiently swimming toward her first gulp of air, and tears streamed.

Watch how the patient mother keeps gently, slowly, lifting her baby toward the surface with her huge nose.

Sometimes I just can’t wrap my mind around the things God has created. Perhaps like no other spiritual discipline, pondering the works of His hands inspires awe and worship in me, and I usually sob and praise at the same time. I keep saying through my tears while I’m honking into a Kleenex, “Lord! You do all things well! I am amazed at you! Thank you!” Considering God’s vast astronomical handiwork does the same thing in my soul. Awe. Tears. Praise.

Do you remember when Jesus taught His disciples about God’s wondrous ways in Luke, chapter 12? He told them to not be afraid of people, but to properly fear God. He told them how valuable they were to God, and that God already knew the number of their days. He told them to stop worrying and assured them that God would watch over them and provide in every way — what to say, where to go, and even that their food and clothing would be supplied. Do you remember how in this chapter Jesus encourages His friends to “consider the ravens” and “consider the lilies?” He was teaching His disciples that if God feeds the birds and clothes the flowers in more exquisite glory than Solomon’s robes, He would most certainly care for them.

Sometimes waves of grief wash over me, and I’m stunned again at the realization that Michael is gone, that I’ll never get to look into those big, kind eyes of his, that I’ll never again hear him speak my name with that familiar deep voice, will never touch his hands or smell his neck. But when I see things like the videos above, my delight, awe, and faith in Jesus increases, and I know I can make it through.

Maybe Jesus’ disciples were mightily encouraged when they heard Him say, “Consider the ravens” and “consider the lilies,” but I am encouraged and strengthened when I hear Jesus whisper to my heart, “Julie, consider the puffer fish! Consider the hippos!”

In grateful wonder today,

It’s a chilly, beautiful morning here on the shores of Lake Superior…the best kind of morning for sleeping in, except that I am never allowed to sleep in. Ever. Edith, our 13 year-old Schnauzer, jumps off the bed every morning around 5:45, stands close to my side of the bed, and begins staring at me. If I don’t make any moves to get out of bed, she walks leisurely back and forth between the bedroom and the master bathroom, repeatedly, and I can hear her little doggie toenails clicking on the black slate tiles by the tub. If that doesn’t do it, she does what we call the Schnauzer Stampede, and she begins to gallop, horse-style, back and forth in the bedroom, from the bed to the door and back, over and over again. Until I throw the covers back and she knows she’ll get fed and let outside. Millie watches all of this from her chair and seems unconcerned, until I open the door and then she charges down the hall to beat Edith to their dog dishes, to wait for breakfast.

So, I haven’t slept in for at least thirteen years. (Now that I think about it there are a couple of exceptions when we’ve been on a trip and the dogs weren’t with us, but I still think you should pity me.)

Speaking of trips, in the fall I will be taking my two foster gals on a long-awaited vacation. They have been saving their money for over two years, ever since we returned from our trip to Walt Disney World in late 2012. Both of them have always wanted to go on a cruise, so we’re going to Alaska! And also exciting to me is the fact that two of my friends will be coming along. My friend Carey offered to come and help (because as wonderful as our trips with our fosters have been, they are a bit of a working vacation in many ways), and I said yes in two seconds. Then, when my friend Denel heard we were going, she said she’d like to join us, so we’ll be a quintet. Yay!

Here’s the ship we’ll be on:

It has a climbing wall, some swimming pools, some restaurants, a water slide, a miniature golf course, some staterooms and some deck chairs. My fosters are more than excited. And I am too, just a teensy bit. Michael and I went on an Alaskan cruise many years ago and it was one of our favorite vacations. At first we didn’t think we were “cruise people,” but when we learned how relaxing and restful a cruise can be, we changed our minds. I was pleasantly surprised by the solitude you can find on a cruise, and Michael was surprised that he didn’t go stir-crazy. The beauty of the Inside Passage was like nothing we’d ever seen. And seeing whales breaching close to the ship was unforgettable. I’m really hoping my fosters get to see some whales.

The one thing I hate about cruises are the formal nights at dinner. Blech. Ick. Boo. Hiss. Two out of the seven nights, men are required to wear tuxedos or suits, and women wear fancy cocktail-type outfits with sequins and such. Gah. That is so not me. I live in jeans, soft cotton knit tunics, and Birkenstocks. One option is to stay in your stateroom and watch ship TV and order room service, which I might be tempted to do if I were cruising alone. But I want my gals to have the full experience and I know they will love the formal nights even if I’m not a fan. So I’ll be taking them shopping for fancy attire soon and it will give them a memory they’ll talk about forever.

On the book front, I just finished reading a really good book, entitled A Man Called Peter, by Catherine Marshall. It’s the life story of Scotsman Peter Marshall (duh) and how he came to America and eventually became the Chaplain of the United States Senate. I’ve been very moved and inspired as I’ve read it. The next two in the reading queue are The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy and Babette’s Feast. What are you reading? I always like to know.

All this seems so frivolous in light of what just happened in South Carolina. I always seem to have enough words for three people, babbling on with ease. But I don’t have any words for this situation, except what I utter in prayer for them. I ask Jesus to do what only He can do. And ask Him what He wants me to do.

Well, it is time for me to get round two of breakfast started. Later today Edith and Millie will be going on their quarterly visits to The Bad Lady’s house, where they’ll be bathed and groomed and will act embarrassed for the rest of the day as they adjust to their doggy nakedness.

Thank you for stopping in here, friends. God bless your weekend,

A lot has happened since I first started on our most recent chalkboard wall.

You can see at the top where our grandson, Mr. McBoy, wrote out his love to his grandpa on the night of his death.

Since Michael moved to heaven on February 9th, I’ve added two attributes of God to the “God Is…” wall myself. I was inspired by a song by Robin Mark that I play repeatedly when I’m driving. The song is so beautiful and if you’d like to hear it, click here. 

I’ve added that God is the binder of wounds, and the healer of hearts.

And even though it’s not grammatically correct, I absolutely think “God is Grandpa we love you!!!” Yes, God can be found in a grandson’s love for his dying grandpa.

When I’m in the kitchen and look across the dining room to this wall, I ask Him to help me put my mind on one or more of His beautiful attributes, so I can meditate on it (or them) all day long. I’ve been thinking about God as the healer of my heart and the binder of my wounds for seventeen weeks now.

Also, this morning I read this poem during my quiet time, when my knees were aching more than usual and my soul felt empty for no good reason. I prayed this prayer and laughed and wiped tears while I did, because in two seconds I realized that an empty pitcher is no problem at all for a Full Fountain….

O Lord, we come this morning knee-bowed and body-bent
Before Thy throne of grace.
O Lord, this morning, bow our hearts beneath our knees.
And our knees in the lonesome valley.
We come this morning, like empty pitchers to a full fountain,
With no merits of our own.
O Lord, open up a new window of heaven,
And lean out far over the battlements of glory.
And listen this morning.

~~James Weldon Johnson

*         *         *         *         *         *

I think the next thing to do is add another attribute of God to our dining room chalkboard wall. God is the binder of wounds, the healer of hearts, and God is a full fountain!

God’s blessings on you today,

I have begun walking now and then in the cemetery where Michael’s body is buried. It’s a beautiful place, full of overhanging trees, large ponds, rolling hills and very old graves. When Michael and I traveled to England, Ireland and Scotland in 2007, we found we both enjoyed walking in old graveyards, reading the words on the head stones and pondering history. I am enjoying the same here in Northeastern Minnesota. I see older women walking in the cemetery occasionally, and I can imagine why. Aside from the quiet beauty of the many lanes weaving throughout the sloping sections there, it’s relatively private and there’s no traffic. Older women (the ones who aren’t terribly fit) like to walk without being noticed, and Forest Hill is a good place for anonymous waddling.

I have taken several pictures of headstones and mausoleums that caught my eye, and I thought I’d share them here. You can click to enlarge some of them if you like.

I like this rough-hewn cross that looks like it was literally chopped a chunk at a time from a huge stone….

I also like this one, that looks half undone, with a Greek pillar emerging from it….

I admire this one each time I’m there, because of the amazing detail carved in the bouquet of flowers and the look of a parchment scroll for Mr. or Mrs. Gee’s name…

This one always makes me grin…no offense meant to the Coffin family…

So many of the white marble markers are covered with over a hundred years of mold and lichen. This one is about ten feet tall…

It looks like the Johnsons originally intended to have names and dates engraved in the empty square section. I think I’ll get closer next time to see what the book says. I wouldn’t mind an open book over my grave…

This is one of the older sections of the cemetery. Headstones are smaller than are usually seen today, and many of them have either fallen over or nearly so, as the ground has eroded over the last century.

I find the Greek or Roman temple-like mausoleums fascinating. I wonder what they look like inside….are there shelves where caskets have been stacked? Many of the names on these edifices are familiar to me because they’re from wealthy families in our city, some of which have large buildings named after them downtown.

This one is huge…

I took this picture in the oldest part of the cemetery. Elizabeth Shaw was born in 1833 and died in 1897.

All the graves pictured above lie beyond the furthest trees on the hill you see in this picture below. This part of the cemetery below is newer, and Michael is buried out of the view of this photo, to the left.

This is a field of military graves with tiny headstones, and most of these men lived during World War I.

I took this picture because I enjoy seeing the incongruity of the cube the Dowse family chose, compared with the more traditional grave stones.

And the Wilsons apparently planned to come and sit for a while, but wanted the sundial so they could keep track of the time…

There are a few of these above-ground graves too. This couple were friends of Michael’s parents…

And I like Johann and Christine Krause Rakowsky’s grave marker. At the bottom it says, “Christ is my life, death my reward.”

May it be so, Lord.

And if you haven’t seen the recently installed headstone I chose for Michael, you can click here.

In more earthly matters, I will be Rug Doctoring my carpets this weekend. Very exciting, I know. But it will make me happy afterwards.

What are you doing this weekend? Yardwork? Traveling? Resting? Working? Reading?  I would love to know…

Yesterday was the last day of school here, and my daughter Carolyn took this picture of two of her daughters when she picked them up at the end of the day:

Vivie looks a little crazed, Audrey (who’s lost two teeth this week) looks a lot relieved, and Walter their new pug puppy is adding his happy smile to the scene.

I remember when school let out for the summer in Southern California when I was a little girl. The hot months ahead seemed to stretch out endlessly with so many fantastic opportunities; swimming, biking, the beach, Disneyland, overnights with friends, reading, sleeping in. And when I went back to school in the fall, my friends were noticeably changed, and we all felt like we’d been apart for years.

Now, as all old people know, the next three months will speed by in the blink of an eye, the leaves will begin to turn red and orange and yellow, and it will soon be time to bring out our snow shovels, bags of ice melt, and windshield scrapers.

Wait a minute. I can see lilacs and apple blossoms through my front windows. I see robins and chickadees in my yard. I hear the sound of a lawnmower this very minute. I have plans to buy a watermelon this afternoon. I’m not going to let my mind wander to the coming seasons just yet.

While I like all the pretty pastel colored blooms and the busy birds at my feeders, it’s the smiles of the threesome above that give me joy today.

Our daughter Sharon quoted C.S. Lewis in his book The Last Battle in the eulogy she gave at Michael’s funeral. It thrilled me to hear it then and I still love it today, four months later. It makes me think of heaven in a way I never have before.

“And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page; now at last they were beginning Chapter One of The Great Story, which no one on earth has read, which goes on forever, in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

Thinking of heaven in this way, and Michael being there, is a blessing I can hardly contain.

As summer approaches and the sun rises so early in the mornings now, often the birdsong wakes me. I looked at the clock this morning after I pried my dry eyes open and was surprised to see the time was 5:51, and the sun was already brightly streaming through my bedroom windows and the birds were singing their praises.

I scuffed to the kitchen in my Acorn slippers, fed Edith and Millie and let them out, began to get breakfasts ready, and sat for a few minutes at the kitchen table to look out toward Lake Superior. I could tell the humidity is lower today because the Lake is a deep, sapphire blue, rather than the silvery grey it appears when moisture hangs in the air. There are lilacs blooming all over our neighborhood, along with apple trees in our yard, and the pinks and purples and whites are so lovely. They make me wish I had a long lane bordered on both sides with blooming trees like in Anne of Green Gables. And I wouldn’t mind riding in a wagon pulled by a slow horse, with Matthew Cuthbert either. What a grace-filled man was Matthew. He reminds me of my Michael.

Things are quiet here this morning. Both of our Fosters are out having fun with friends, bowling, seeing a movie, going out for lunch. Sara is loading my Subaru Outback with dozens of her breathtaking floral creations for a wedding later this afternoon. So, I thought I would sit down and write a little bit about what a gift it is to have some time each day to sit with Jesus. You could call it a quiet time or a prayer time and those would be right, but since Michael has moved to heaven and a few hours in each day have opened up for me, I am asking the Lord to help me fill those hours in a way that will please Him and change me.

I read a book recently that was so encouraging, so inspiring, so practical, I must recommend it to you. It’s called The Book of Not So Common Prayer by Linda McCullough Moore, and I think it’s my favorite book on prayer I’ve ever read. I’ve longed to be a woman of prayer for years and years, and do pray, every day. But not in the life-changing ways I always sensed were possible. Ms. Moore shares her own story of how she longed to pray like Brother Lawrence, communing with God all throughout the day, no matter how menial his tasks or what was going on in his life. Her book is about how transformative her decision was to pray four times a day for fifteen minutes. Obviously one might have to make some changes in order to facilitate this kind of commitment, but her story was so beautiful I knew I wanted to try.

I’m still learning, and there are days when I might only spend one period of time in prayer, much less four. I took hope from the book because the author is so honest about her own struggles with waning prayer times over the years. But she kept coming back, kept wanting to connect with the Lord more than she had been. I appreciate that she emphasizes it’s not the rigid following of rote praying four times a day. It’s a relational meeting with God, bringing one’s self to Him over and over again to give Him praise, ask for His help, tell Him all about our sorrows and joys, to learn to listen for His still, small voice, and to trust Him to help and change us.

I have always had a small pile of things around my comfy bedroom chair for my quiet times, but lately I have a lot. My Bible and a gratitude journal have been part of my time with the Lord for years now. But in the last two or three months, I’m experiencing so much joy and anticipation as I have added some other helps.

Before I tell you about each one, I want to say — I have all these books because I need so much help, not because I’m so good and godly. Quite the contrary, I am often not the woman I long to be, so feel I probably need more assistance and mercy than most people. The sin and destruction in my ancestral family line runs deep and dark, and I have seen the evidence in myself. I ask God frequently to destroy those generational fetters, and show me how to walk in freedom, and to pave new roads of humility and wholeness and joy for my children and grandchildren.

So, the big navy blue book is my Bible, given to me by Michael and my children many years ago. If I could only have one book out of all you see above, it would be this one. I am one of those fringe Christians who believe that the Bible is God’s Holy Word, full of power and very alive to achieve God’s purposes in us. I never knew how to want to study God’s Word until I started attending Community Bible Study in 1998, but since then He has put an anticipation and hunger in my heart for in-depth study and I pray it will be there until the day I die.

The brown book is a lined journal where I write down and number the things I’m thankful for, focusing on how each one is a gift from God to me. I’m in the 4400s now, and this discipline has been one of the most life-changing, happy things I’ve ever done. I am not sure I would be in my right mind if the Lord hadn’t led me to begin an almost-daily practice of giving thanks. Psalm 100:4 tells me I can enter the gates of the Lord with thanksgiving, and I can step into His courts with praise. Those are places I want to be every day, and I try to picture myself in His magnificent courts as I give Him my thanks and praise. And, yes, I do thank Him more than once for things, and also for seemingly small or insignificant graces.

4098 — A good night’s sleep last night, Lord. Thank you! 4321 — Heat that comes into each room at the touch of a button. 4406 — The way our children honored Michael and honored You at his funeral. 4472 — The baby geese at the cemetery, staying close to their parents and flapping their little underdeveloped wings — you do all things well Lord! Thank you. Such beauty.

The striped book is a daily devotional by Shauna Niequist called Savor. I’m enjoying it very much, and when I’ve gone through this one I’ll choose another.

There’s a book by Phyllis Tickle called The Divine Hours, and the concept of reading already printed prayers is new to me. Catholic and Anglican believers will be more familiar with this practice. I am drawn to this more than I would have thought, because you know what? There are some days when I know I need to pray and just don’t know what to say. I often pray “Help me Lord. Thank you Lord. Help my children Lord. Do something Lord!” and I know that God hears and answers. But I want to say more. I want to pray the Psalms. I want to intentionally, expectantly pray some ancient prayers and make them my own. And often times, up to four times a day, I reach for The Divine Hours and cry out to the Lord with something already on a page.

You can see part of a white book with Michael’s laminated newspaper obituary as its bookmark. Some dear friends recommended The Heidelberg Catechism and spoke of the riches they’re finding there, so I bought my own copy. I am going through it very slowly, and it’s filled with scripture and truths that are strengthening my soul during these weak and grieving days. I may only read a lesson from this book twice a week, but it feeds me.

Can you see the swirly, blue and green paisley book? I write some of my prayers there. Sometimes I cry my prayers, sometimes I read centuries-old prayers and make them personal, sometimes I bow my head and pray silently, and many times I write out my prayers to my heavenly Father. I also use this book to ask the Lord questions, and I might come back to it weeks later and see that He answered me. I love that. I write down who I’ve prayed for and what I’ve asked. Sometimes I write the names of my children down, their spouses, their children, over and over again, and I pray for them as I write those precious names in black and white.

And you might be able to see the dark red book with the gold cross? That’s a hymnal. Often during one of my daily prayer times (usually in the afternoons) I find a hymn, sing it out loud and make it my heartfelt prayer. I’m not a good singer but I can carry a tune (not that the Lord cares about that), and with my bedroom door closed, I look up, tears streaming, and sing out my heart’s cries to Jesus. Some recent hymns have been “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” (while picturing His protection for me and those I love), “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing” while believing that He is literally tuning my heart to sing His praise, and this morning’s song was “‘Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus.”

I have a new physical malady that has reared its very unwelcome head in the past week, and I hate it. Even though I’ve made a doctor’s appointment, from what I know and have read of it, there are no clear cut answers. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s hard for me to bear. This morning I sang these words, and they ministered to my soul:

“O how sweet to trust in Jesus, just to trust His cleansing blood, just in simple faith to plunge me, ‘neath the healing, cleansing flood!

“Yes, ’tis sweet to trust in Jesus, just from sin and self to cease, just from Jesus simply taking life and rest and joy and peace!

“Jesus, Jesus how I trust Him! How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er! Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus! O for grace to trust Him more!”

And I guess that’s what my journey in prayer is all about. I long to trust Him more and more. I want to bring myself many times a day to His feet, and cease from sin and selfishness, and draw from that deep well of love and grace with my name on it.

What do you think of that idea? That there might be a deep, clear, pure, refreshing, well or pool of grace, strength, and mercy that He has filled for only you? And one for only me? That it’s there each morning for us to jump into, to completely submerge ourselves in, to splash around in, and be cleansed and refreshed? I don’t know about you, but I like that idea. If you were out walking in a beautiful forest with no one else around, and you happened upon a lovely pool with a sign posted on the bank with your name on it, written in handwriting you somehow knew was the Lord’s, would you jump? I’d like to think I would, but in all honesty I do sometimes forget that this is what the Lord offers me each and every day. But on the days when I jump in and splash around? Oh my….

I guess that’s enough for today. The dishes in my kitchen sink are calling my name. A load of laundry awaits.

But I won’t forget that the Lord also is calling my name. And yours!

I’ll be back to my comfy bedroom chair in an hour or two, asking Him to help me and change me, giving Him the thanks and praise He deserves. But only, ever, with His strength alone.

Many blessings on your weekend, dear friends…

Happy Memorial Day! We had a gorgeous weekend and woke to a steady, needed rain, but I’m sure this dampens (hahaha) the plans of many campers who’ve come north to enjoy the lakes and trees of our great north woods. I can picture many families either sitting in their tents or cabins hoping this passes, or packing up a day early to return home.

In our house, the gray day makes us feel cozy and content, and we have a cheering fire in the dining room fireplace, soft Irish music playing, and a full day ahead to do whatever we like. I plan on wearing my terribly ugly but wonderfully comfortable sweat pants and sweat shirt, will write a letter, fold some laundry, write in my gratitude journal, and pray for those I love. And sip tea. And for dinner we will have the last of some delicious curry-filled Mulligatawny soup my friend Carey made.

I thought I’d show you a picture of something new that hangs on our kitchen wall. It’s a gift Sharon gave me for Mother’s Day. Recently I coerced her into listening to (on CD) one of my favorite books ever, Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. I’m not sure she has found the book as breathtaking as I did, but she had a beautiful quote from the book put on canvas, and I love it.

“Oh, Thou who art! Ecclesiastes names you the Almighty; the Maccabees name you the Creator; the Epistle to the Ephesians names you Liberty; Baruch names you Immensity; the Psalms name you Wisdom and Truth; John names you Light; the Book of Kings names you Lord; Exodus calls you Providence; Leviticus, Holiness; Esdras, Justice; Creation names you God; mankind names you Father; but Solomon names you Mercy, and of all your names, that is the most beautiful.”

(Note: I am a Protestant, so am assuming a couple of the books listed above are from the Apocrypha.)

I have been pondering the attributes of God for several months now, and even have a chalkboard wall in our dining room listing the ones I can think of, preaching to myself every single day. Whenever I see a new facet of God in Scripture or within my own experiences, I write it down. Our chalkboard wall currently looks like this, and you can also see a past drawing here.

I have to agree with Mr. Hugo. Out of all of God’s magnificent names and traits, the one most dear to me is His Mercy. I could not have lived without it then, cannot be without it today, and could not possibly face the future without His mercy.

How about you? Out of the names of God listed above, which one means the most to you today?

The cemetery where Michael’s body was laid to rest is about two and a half miles from our house. He and I have taken our grandchildren there many times to feed the ducks and geese that swim the two large ponds there. Our granddaughter Clara and I have seen a gorgeous, dusky periwinkle-colored blue heron there two times, standing still in the reeds on the edge of the pond, one leg bent backwards, head down, listening for a fish. The cemetery has headstones dating back to the early 1800s, and we have always enjoyed walking there, and pondering what the lives of people might have been like, based on their headstones and what’s engraved on them.

I’ve been driving up to the cemetery every couple of days to see if Michael’s headstone has been installed yet, and on Tuesday I happened upon the workman who was completing the job. The sod that will be planted on Michael’s grave will go in next week. Here is the view from the little road in the cemetery — it looks out over one of the ponds and of the distant hill where many old graves sit under the shadow of beautiful trees. Spring has come a little late in our northern part of the country, so the trees are a little sparse looking.

Here is the other side, and I removed our birth dates from the picture so weirdos who lurk on innocent little blogs can’t steal them. Boo.

A dear friend asked me recently how it felt to see my name on a grave stone and I told her I felt strangely content and hopeful. Conversely, to see my beloved husband’s name makes me feel sometimes bereft and untethered. I am comfortable with all the emotions I’ve been feeling since losing Michael, though. I want to walk right through the middle of this grief holding my heavenly Father’s hand, and experience everything He has for me. I am not afraid of sorrow.

I chose a tall pine tree because Michael was a Minnesota outdoorsman to the max. He loved to hunt and fish, camp and hike, and he commented on the beauty of our area constantly. There are other head stones in this cemetery with fish and deer on them, but that just didn’t seem to be the right choice for us.

And I chose to have a simple cross in between our names, because the love and keeping power of Jesus is without a doubt why Michael and I stayed married for almost 34 years. We never had any hugely catastrophic upsets in our marriage (although Jesus would have been up to the task if that had been the case), but we both could be such hard headed people. As a matter of fact, whenever this song came on the stereo, Michael would grin at me, put his hand on my leg, and sing along, as if it were his theme song. Ha. I know that our mutual faith in Christ was the glue that held us together during times when either one of us might have wanted to be done. And oh, how thankful I am for that Gracious Glue! I will thank God for as long as He gives me breath for allowing me to be Michael’s wife, and for having his love. Are any of you out there struggling in your marriage? If at all possible, humble yourselves and pray together, and resolve to speak kind, building things to your spouse. Even if you don’t feel like it, or he/she doesn’t deserve it in your opinion. Ask God to help you speak one building, encouraging thing each day to your spouse, and just try it as an offering to the God who gives you life and a mouth to speak. I don’t offer this advice from a lofty, accomplished spot or pretend to know all the answers, but I know many of the beautiful times Michael and I had were because of prayer and humble kindness, mostly on his part! No one ever regrets being kind and humble. I wish I could say this has been my way all of my life but it has not. I’m still learning and want to change.

And I chose Psalm 106:1 for the scripture on our headstone, because Michael loved to praise the Lord, and because I believe I owe my mental health to keeping a gratitude journal and giving thanks to the Lord. Praising and thanking — they’re both there in that verse. And the most important part is of course that God is good, and His mercy will never, ever end. I can’t think of better news than that.

Finally, here’s one of the last pictures taken of Michael and me together. Sharon took this and I have posted other shots from the same session, but this is my favorite.

It has been 14 weeks now. I suppose there will come a day when I’m not counting days and weeks anymore, but instead will mark the years since Michael’s passing.

No matter how many days the Lord gives me, one thing is certain. Any time I think of my husband, a smile comes easily to my face, just like the one above. There might be tears streaming at the same time, but oh, yes….there will always be a smile.

Thanking Him today,

When I started this little blog several years ago I never once thought “A Fitting Casket Spray” would ever be the title of a blog post. But death is part of life, and Michael’s death and absence and legacy will be part of my days forever, so here I am sharing another part of his funeral.

I’m so grateful that all our children took part in their own wonderful ways, in contributing to those last days of Michael’s life, and to his funeral service. I still think about how beautiful it was.

Sara made her dad’s casket spray. She has been a floral designer for many years now, and of course it was appropriate that she would be the one to create something to put on Michael’s casket that would honor and represent him. We have a workshop area in our basement Sara uses to make all her floral arrangements, and I could hear her down there off and on for two days, making Michael’s spray.

Michael was a man who loved flowers. He enjoyed getting flowers more than any woman I’ve ever known. He also loved evergreens. He was a rock collector, especially of agates which can be found all over Minnesota. And he had been hunting deer almost every November since he was twelve years old. (Although during the last three-four years of his life he started feeding deer instead of shooting them for food. He loved watching the deer that came to our yard every day. I have never pretended to understand the whole deer hunting culture in Minnesota, but oh well….) So Sara filled Michael’s casket spray with flowers, rich foresty greens, ferns, deer antlers and rocks Michael had collected. She also included Scottish thistle as a nod to his ancestry.

The spray was breathtaking, and this slightly grainy photo taken with my phone doesn’t come close to doing it justice:

You can click to enlarge it if you like.

Another one:

After the funeral and meal were over, we drove to the cemetery and our pastor led our family in a committal ceremony at Michael’s grave site. We prayed together, cried, sang the song “Because He Lives,” and said goodbye. Before we all drove home on that day, we each stepped forward to take a flower from this arrangement Sara created.

I have dried Scottish thistle blooms on my kitchen windowsill that remind me how much beauty can be found in the death of someone who loves the Lord.