Picture this.

Today was a hazy day with wispy clouds high in the sky. Unseasonably warm temps coaxed Jack and I to the beach for an outdoor prayer time, a special treat. Walking the waveless waterline in bare feet was surely wading on borrowed time.

When we left the beach to run errands, I glanced back to appreciate the view. “The sunset will be beautiful tonight with these streaky clouds,” I told Jack.

Hours later I was taking advantage of a senior citizen day at the nearest Kohl’s (22 miles away) and noticed a pinkish light streaming through the windows and across the clothing racks, a wildly colorful sunset going on just across the parking lot.

Heading for the windows with an armload of clothes, I marveled at the magnificent view. Amazingly, the crowd pushing hangers back and forth nearby was unaware of the light show outside.

Watching pink, blue, purple and gold layers ripple across the sky like theater floodlights, I knew God was doing something spectacular, so dug in my purse for the camera I always carry. When I couldn’t find it, I wondered how I could ever “save” the sunset without it.

Before I could figure that out, though, the colors began to fade, and the opportunity was gone.

As I walked to the fitting room, I couldn’t figure out why my spirits were so low. What was there to be sad about? The bargains were good, the selection was great, time was ample and I’d just enjoyed a gorgeous sunset. What bothered me was my inability to get a picture. Without the picture, I had no evidence of what I’d just seen.

As expected, none of the clothes looked good on me, because my heart wasn’t in it. While driving home, I thought about the sunset and realized I’d been more concerned about getting the picture than seeing the actual sunset. And immediately I thought of Nate. Last night I’d gotten lost in my photo albums until well past midnight. Every picture with Nate in it had become a treasure, because of course there will be no more taken.

And that’s what was bothering me.

A photo can’t hold a sunset any more than a picture could have held Nate. But my thoughts said, “You should have taken more pictures. He’s gone now. You squandered your chances.” I recognized this as the quiet voice of mourning. Although I’ve been feeling better lately, I knew the old sense of sadness could bubble up at any time.

It’s at moments like this that God’s promises of heavenly reunions move in and lift us. “Looking at” the mental picture of reconnecting with loved ones is enough to obliterate negative self-talk and put bright hope in its place. Although I  have no photos of heaven in my albums, those glorious reunions are worth trying to “see”.

I can’t post a current picture of Nate, nor can I show one of tonight’s sunset or of a heavenly reunion. But having no pictures can’t negate the wondrous reality of all three.

“Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.” (Hebrews 11:1)

Remembering the Wake

A year ago today, our family got dressed in black and assembled in a Chicago funeral home for Nate’s wake, a difficult day that began rushing toward us the moment he died. Thinking back, I remember with a shudder how I felt as we drove the old mini-van from Michigan to Chicago. Nelson was at the wheel, others were in the back, and my mind was swirling with a thousand details. Had we covered all the bases? Were we factoring in the time change from EST to CST? Did we bring the programs? Would we be able to bear what this day would bring?

But God was ready with a special something to calm my fears and bring a measure of peace. As we drove, my cell rang, and I heard the unmistakable Scottish accent of Colin Smith, our former pastor. He would be doing Nate’s service and was calling to reassure me. Reminding me Nate was  in the presence of Christ on this day, he pulled my attention toward eternal positives and brought welcome relief to my spirit.

I also remember walking into the funeral home, greeted warmly by the personnel there, on a day when my frame of mind was freezing cold. The low point of the day came as I stepped into the room where Nate’s casket was positioned at the far end, wondering if my knees would buckle.

Seeing him there was a more powerful confirmation of his death than seeing him at home in the hospital bed immediately after he died. Lying in the bed he looked exactly as we’d expected at the conclusion of terminal, stage 4, pancreatic cancer. At the funeral home, in a casket, dressed in a business suit and wearing make-up, he looked out of place and awful. It was hard to look at his face, because that wasn’t my Nate.

Today I’m remembering with gratitude the long line of sympathizers who made the effort to attend that wake, who greeted me with memories of Nate and words of reassurance. As I hugged people, without realizing it I gradually inched away from Nate’s casket toward the back of the room. Several good friends tapped me on the shoulder and said, “You ought to move back toward Nate.” But I was far more composed half-a-room away.

In thinking back to Nate’s wake, my wish is that I could watch a video replay of each attendee and listen to our conversations again. So much of it was blurred because of the strain of that day. But I do remember the warmth that flowed over me as I received people, a stark contrast to the trembling cold I felt while looking at Nate’s body.

My family and I are still in the land of the living, which makes standing next to the dead an alien experience. But by God’s design, one day all of us will again stand next to Nate, who will be very much alive and well. That joyful truth will be the grand finale of his sad earthly wake. As rough as that day was, it wasn’t God’s final word.

There will be much more to the story.

”We will not be spirits without bodies. While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sigh… We want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life.” (2 Corinthians 5:3-4)

One Year Ago: Nate’s Exit to Heaven

People might judge our family to have too keen a focus on Nate’s death, but those of us left behind love to talk about him. Whether it’s the decision about his headstone, the reliving of a memory or a reason to be thankful, all of us are warmed in the process.

Today on the one year anniversary of Nate’s death, nearly 100% of the conversation has been about him, beginning with my children and then through emails, blog comments and snail mail from others. I am a fortunate woman to have so many caring friends, some I’ve known only through cyber space.

Many included comforting Scriptures in their messasges. Nearly all have said they were praying for our family, which I’m sure is the reason it’s been a day of blessing rather than an endurance contest of misery.

One thing mentioned by the kids today is their fresh focus on eternity. We all wonder what’s going on in that supernatural paradise. What is Nate doing? What is he seeing? Who is he talking to? Although we’ve known others who’ve been there for years, it wasn’t until Nate died that we began to seriously ponder the possibilities. Thinking about heaven seems to calm grief the way salve soothes a raw wound.

Hans and Katy’s friend Esther took the time to copy Psalm 121 into her email, the first one I opened this morning:

“[The Lord] who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches… will neither slumber nor sleep. He will watch over your life. The Lord will watch over your coming and going, both now and forevermore.”

These powerful words of promise were a positive way to start the morning. Part of their impact was in knowing they also applied to Nate. I believe the phrase “watching over your coming and going” includes our entering this world, and later exiting from it. God carefully watched over Nate’s life between his “coming” at conception and his “going” at death, right into eternity on November 3, 2009. As Nate arrived there, it became another “coming” monitored by the Lord. Cancer was Satan’s awful idea, but God used it as the vehicle to transport Nate into blissful eternity.

Today all of our children checked in with me. They’re a precious lot, and I don’t deserve the tender kindness they’ve shown. Although we couldn’t all be together, we were one in heart and mind, which greatly enriched this significant milestone.

As the day ended, I went back to Psalm 121, looking it up in Nate’s Bible. Although he didn’t often mark on the words of Scripture, he’d underlined the verses about the Lord watching over him and over his coming and going. Seeing his wavy pen lines on the page made me smile and experience a brief connection to my man.

I needn’t have worried about this important day. In place of tears, God gave us joy… all of us. Especially Nate.

“Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of Heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121:1-2)