When our Hans was two, I often said, “Hans, come over here.” He would toddle up to me, and I’d say it again. “Hans, come here.”

Then he’d say, “But I am come-here-d.” And I’d laugh and scoop him up for a hug.

Eventually he figured out this ritual had nothing to do with asking him to come over and everything to do with what he said when he got there. Eventually he’d run to me without having been called and say, “I’m come-here-d, Mama!” waiting for the hug to follow.

Every parent has a million of these happy memories tucked away in a mental treasure chest. They’re part of the family narrative, bits of glue that bond individuals together.

Hans is married now, has a family and lives 4000 miles away in England, but because of our shared memories, we remain close. He’s making new history now, and I’m not part of it. Gradually as the years go by, more and more of his time will be lived with others, which of course is how life goes.

When I think about Nate, the situation has several parallels. He and I each had our parent-child relationships for 20 years before we met, after which we began making memories together. The toddler-Hans memory was just one small part of what Nate and I shared.

Then he died. His departure was similar to when Hans moved to England. Both left quickly, and distances were great, but when Nate moved, he relocated farther away than any point on our globe. I can still get to my son but can no longer get to my husband.

As I think about Nate in his new life in that hidden world, I know he’s making a million fresh memories, none of which include me. The flip side of that scenario is also true. The memories I’m making, many of them delightful, no longer include Nate. For example, although he’d planned to live with me in Michigan, I’m experiencing my first winter in the “summer cottage” without him. Also, this year I’ll turn 65, and all the jokes we made about signing up together for Medicare now only apply to me. I will continue to age, but his birthdays stopped at 64.

Three of his grandchildren will join our family in the next three months, none of whom will know their grandpa. My travel to help with these babies and their toddler siblings, full of bright moments, will occur without him. Our family reunion this fall, returning to a place Nate chose and loved, will be full of satisfaction and significance for all of us, except Nate.

I believe these thoughts are God’s gift to me, encouraging me toward the future. Although my first choice would have been for our family leader to still be leading, the Lord is leading now and is hinting at wonderful memory-making to come. The fact that Nate is a million miles away having a spectacular time without me doesn’t mean I ought not to keep making happy memories right here where he left me.

I believe Nate and I will always be who we are, even in the hereafter. God went to the trouble to design people to be unique, each different from all the others. Why would he homogenize us in heaven? Just as Jesus prompted his friends to notice he was the same recognizable person after his resurrection as before, I think Nate will be the same recognizable man when I see him again.

Once in heaven, we’ll most likely remember our earthly history together while catching up on the separate memories we’ve made during our time apart. The Bible says there are no marriage partners in heaven, but I’m sure Nate and I will be good friends, just as we were on earth, but better.

Erwin Lutzer, one of my favorite pastors, said, “Death breaks ties on earth but renews them in heaven.” I believe it wholeheartedly. In the mean time, I’ll do what Nate did. I’ll “soldier on” and take pleasure in making memories where I am.

Eventually God will ask me to “Come here,” and one day I’ll be standing next to him, thrilled to say, “I am come-here-d!” And after I get my hug, I’ll look up, and there will be Nate.

“God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus.” (Ephesians 2:6-7)

It was another rough Sunday for us. I guess that’s how it’ll be for a while. Nate had a strong presence with all of us every Sunday, devoting his day to family. After Adult Sunday School and the worship service, we’d always go out for brunch. Nate’s preference was a breakfast restaurant that served omelets, preferably a Denver or his favorite, a salsa omelet with extra salsa on the side. Since family members took turns choosing where to eat, he didn’t always get his omelet but willingly ate (and paid for) ribs at Chile’s, orange chicken at Panda Express or lasagna at The Olive Garden.

More often than not, there were extra kid-pals around the restaurant table every week. His answer when our kids asked was always, “Sure, they can all come.”

During the meal, we’d chat about the morning sermon and sometimes end up in a deep theological discussion. Other times it was sports or school stuff or vacation plans. Talk was never dull as all of us competed for “the floor,” and laughter was the punctuation in every conversation.

Nate’s favorite Sunday brunch/lunch spot was a restaurant in Wheeling we always called “Grannie Annie’s.” Its real name is “The Original Grannie’s,” and I think our name for it came from the former owners thirty years ago. Nate became good friends with the current owner and couldn’t praise the staff enough. “They always keep our coffee cups full,” he’d say. Nate loved coffee, whether high priced or generic, and drank it without reserve. During one brunch at “Grannie’s” I counted. He put away 12 cups even before his omelet arrived. “But they’re such small cups,” he said.

When Nate got his first cell phone, he loved using it to call “Grannie’s” and tell them we were coming. Like many restaurants, they didn’t take reservations, but we were frequent visitors with many eaters, so they did it for Nate. “Hi, George. It’s Nate Nyman. We’re bringing 13 today, and we’ll be there in 15 minutes.” Usually our table was waiting, a gift to a large family that usually has to wait to be seated.

All the waitresses, every one of them efficient and professional, got to know Nate and his generous tipping. “They’re trying to support their families,” he’d say, “and a little extra can’t hurt.”

Today after church it was just Louisa, Birgitta and me. “Can we go to Panera?” they asked.

Even that question brought a pang of sadness as I thought of how far we were from “Grannie Annie’s” now that we’re in Michigan, and also how far from Nate, who hosted us there literally hundreds of times. But the Lord knew we needed a boost today and provided it by way of a meaningful conversation the girls and I had at Panera. We talked about eternal security.

Of course Nate was at the center of the conversation, and today’s punctuation was tears rather than laughter, but it was good to get our thoughts out on the table. The girls, at 19 and 21, are thinking deeply about life and death issues, an important undertaking most of their friends have not had to consider. The process doesn’t come without pain.

The three of us talked about how much we miss Nate. I think one of the reasons Sundays are difficult is because of his strong leadership as brunch/lunch director. To sit in a restaurant without him is like hearing an orchestra play without its conductor. The symphony is familiar but the rhythm is off.

“Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusts in you: yes, in the shadow of your wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.” (Psalm 57:1)

^“Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye who hope in the Lord.” (Psalm 31:24)