Remembering back to the four long, frustrating years it took us to sell our house in the Chicago area, I’m thankful not to be living in it still. Although we’d listed our six bedroom farm home at the peak of the real estate bubble, a free-fall started immediately thereafter, and as the economy toppled, so did our house value. We watched it plummet to nearly half its original listing price and wondered if it would sell at all.

I recall one anxious morning in vivid detail. The kids had gone to school, so I gathered my Bible, notebook, pen and coffee for an hour of conversation with the Lord. The realtor had been over the day before, walking through the house in an effort to determine how to make it more saleable, and I’d been nervous about what she was going to say.

We’d already torn out old basement shelves, put up Perma-seal walls, installed a new drainage system and painted the floor. All the bedrooms had received new carpeting, and other carpets had been cleaned. I’d put up new curtains, bought new spreads and throw pillows for the beds and eliminated clutter in every room. The exterior doormats were new, as were the kitchen throw rugs.

We’d replaced the old furnace and added a third central air conditioning unit. I’d emptied the crawl space completely and also the attic. We’d repaired irregularities in the garage floor and re-tarred the driveway.  I’d removed one third of everything in every cabinet, drawer and closet.

All three bathrooms had received new tub and sink hardware, and we’d had all the grout between the ceramic tiles on walls and floors professionally re-dyed. The largest bathroom had gotten a complete makeover. All three had received new towels and rugs.

The laundry room had been given a new energy-efficient, front-loading wash machine with matching dryer and a new countertop over both of them. Lastly (and most expensively), we’d wrapped the house in white vinyl siding and painted the shutters, after which I’d pruned all the landscaping.

That morning as I sat in a sunny corner of the living room, our realtor’s advice from the day before pounded in my head like a migraine headache: “Paint every room beige… paint every room beige.”

Was she kidding?

I loved my dramatic navy paint, touches of which were in all the rooms. Besides, our house was squeaky-clean and completely in order, something that hadn’t happened in 35 years. Could paint possibly make any difference?

I’d prayed about the house sale a thousand times over. How hard would it have been for God to send just one buyer? But it turned out he wasn’t as interested in a closing date as in something else: our character. Without our realizing it, he’d enrolled us in his School of Perseverance. Never mind that Nate and I had worked the better part of four years to get the house sold and felt we’d done enough. Perseverance is a quality God highly esteems, and he apparently thought we didn’t have enough of it.

Although it was early morning in my navy blue living room, my spirit began to sag as if it was well past midnight.

(…to be continued)

“You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.” (Hebrews 10:36)

Linnea just sent an interesting email. She and Adam had been talking about the many changes each one in our family has experienced in the past year:

Nelson sold his landscaping business and rejoined Youth With A Mission full time, leading young people from many nations toward all-out commitments to Christ. Lars worked in Chicago for a year (after 15 years in San Diego) and is currently working back in California for six weeks, in his old insurance office. Linnea and Adam are caring for two children instead of one. Klaus has met the love of his life in our tiny Michigan town. Hans and Katy are raising three children instead of one. Louisa is immersed in Scripture at YWAM’s School of Biblical Studies. Birgitta is making A’s as a double major at the University of Iowa.”

Although change can be difficult and adjustments rocky, the above list is bursting with blessing. The devil came alongside a Christian family and said, “Watch me make a mess of this whole group. I’ll hit the father with an ugly, terminal disease, and that’ll cause the rest of them to spin into despair. Hopefully they’ll blame God for the whole mess.”

But that’s how our enemy operates, hoping to contaminate the testimonies of people who love the Lord. Better yet, he wants to turn them away from God completely. But as the biblical Joseph told his brothers in reference to their evil actions against him, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good.” (Genesis 50:20)

Although my children have lost their father and I’ve lost my husband, something positive has happened, too. From Linnea’s email: “I get why the Bible says it’s better to mourn than to laugh. Thinking about death makes you live your life better.”

She makes a powerful point. As a result of losing someone precious to all of us, we find ourselves looking at those who are still with us, not just in the Nyman family but all around us. We’re done with thinking length of days is a given. No one is sure of tomorrow or even the rest of today. And from that thought, we find ourselves handling relationships with greater care.

“Did I thank that person for their kindness to me? Have I said ‘I love you’ lately? Did I speak out that compliment I was thinking? Should I apologize for my insensitivity yesterday?”

When it used to be easy to put things off till later, now we know later might not come. The wiser choice is to do it today. That goes for spending time in prayer, studying the one Book that’s everlasting, giving to others, and keeping short accounts with God.

As Linnea wrote, “It’s easier to keep perspective and focus on what matters” after we’ve mourned a great loss.

“Better to spend your time at funerals than at parties. After all, everyone dies—so the living should take this to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, for sadness has a refining influence on us. A wise person thinks a lot about death, while a fool thinks only about having a good time.” (Ecclesiastes 7:2-4)

Last year at this time our thoughts were reeling as we worked through a long to-do list of planning Nate’s wake and funeral. This morning as I woke to the music of rain on my roof, I was thankful not to be planning a funeral.

In remembering that chaotic time, I recall that none of us gave a thought to a cemetery gravestone. As it turned out, the job didn’t get done for a year. Today, however, I followed the instructions given by the Rosehill representative and emailed our choices to him, surprised at how difficult that chore turned out to be.

Nelson had sketched a rough drawing of the stone we wanted, adding the capital letters of Nate’s names (and mine), along with dates. Having decided to match my father’s family headstone nearby, our choices weren’t difficult to make. But it was very hard tapping out the email. I made one mistake after another, and my fingers acted like they’d never touched a keyboard. My hands were shaking, and it was almost more than I could accomplish.

Creating a gravestone is serious business. I’m sure that’s where the expression “carved in stone” originated, a description of something that can’t be changed. And as headstones go, that’s true. Once the letters and numbers have been carved into granite, that’s it.

I checked and rechecked my short email to the cemetery, making endless corrections. Digging out the photo of Dad’s family headstone, I studied it with new eyes and unexpectedly felt a strong connection to the carved list of long-buried relatives. Except for my parents, I’d not met any of them.

Dad was only 12 when his father bought this Rosehill plot of graves  in 1911. Twenty-month old William had died of pneumonia, necessitating the purchase. Years ago Dad described that sad funeral, telling how he’d visited the cemetery a few days later, hunting in the snow for the yet-unmarked grave of his little brother. How excruciating must the pain have been for Dad’s parents as they sketched out the headstone for this child?

When the baby’s mother, my grandmother, died 14 months later at 43, Dad and his remaining family were forced back to Rosehill, suffering new sorrow as they buried another loved one. Dad’s father, suddenly a widower, must have felt unbearable pain as he requested his wife’s name be carved into their headstone.

In thinking of these relatives, I had a new reason to be thankful: Nate didn’t have to choose my headstone. Because of his incredible devotion to me, this task would have been nearly impossible for him. Widowhood isn’t easy, but Nate becoming a widower would have been much worse.

Tonight the Lord reminded me that one day this headstone business will all be over. Although I don’t understand it, Scripture says every grave will burst open and give up its dead.

And when this happens, carving names into granite will have finally come to a permanent end.

“Christians who have died will rise from their graves… We who are still alive… will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. Then we will be with the Lord forever. So encourage each other with these words.” (1 Thessalonians 4:16b-18)