Category Archives: Widowhood

A Sparkling Day

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As the sun rose and hit last night’s snowfall, the neighborhood burst into beautiful sparkles. But by the time Jack and I walked to the beach mid-afternoon, the sun’s warmth had done away with most of the new snow. Nevertheless, I picked up pretty stones on the now-visible sand and was impressed with how many of them sparkled in the sun, some as impressive as geodes.

Then I noticed rows of tiny icicles hanging beneath pieces of driftwood left on the beach by winter storms. In the sun, these glistening beauties were like rows of glass thermometers with light dancing inside.

When we got home, sunshine through my windows was hitting a crystal piece of art my friend Julie had given me, splashing hundreds of bright rainbows all over the room. When I spun it, it was better than a crystal ball on New Year’s Eve!

The sparkling snow, the stones, mini-icicles and glass art all came to life when sunbeams hit them. Although each was attractive in its own right, when sunshine was added, they changed from ordinary to dazzling.

This same comparison can be made between Nate and me. I’m living an ordinary life here in Michigan, sleeping, waking, eating, doing all the everyday things. Nate is leading a life for which no word of description is good enough. Even “dazzling” doesn’t do it. It’s outside of our human thinking.

I studied the mini-rainbows on my walls and floors this afternoon, wondering if there will be rainbows in heaven, and if they’ll be even more spectacular than the ones I was looking at. In addition to the rainbow mentioned in Genesis, there’s also one surrounding God’s heavenly throne, another encircling an angel, and still another around the Lord himself.

I think of Nate in relation to all this sparkling beauty and wonder what he must think. I knew him well after 40 years of marriage and would have had the right answers on a quiz about what he was thinking in any given situation. But now I can’t say.

The one thing I do know is that some day I’ll see these supernatural rainbows, too, and become acquainted with the sunshine of heaven, which we’re told is actually Jesus. My guess is that his light will transform every heavenly thing into sparkles. With all the jeweled walls of the city and crowns of the saints, my afternoon rainbows will be small potatoes compared to how things will shine in glory. And Jesus himself, as the bright light of heaven, will be the sparkliest of all!

This afternoon I came home from the beach with a baggie of pretty beach stones. Will heaven have a beach? I know there’s a sea-like-crystal there, and I’m wondering, will the stones at the water’s edge be genuine jewels? Maybe the sand, too? And will Jesus be standing there? Oh my…

If that’s all true, I know why God keeps the wonders of heaven beyond our imaginations, because trying to picture them now is taking my breath away!

“The Lord their God will save his people on that day… They will sparkle in his land like jewels in a crown.” (Zechariah 9:16)

Big Shoulders

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During the past 16 months hundreds of tears, if not thousands, have spilled from my eyes, but of course that’s true of other people, too. Nate’s death was my reason, but unnumbered different heartbreaks have caused the tears of others. Our earthly lives will always include suffering, and tears will always flow.

Most of my crying has been done in private. I don’t like to “lose it” in front of others, and somehow my brain accepts that, holding back tears until I can sequester myself. Once in a while, though, it’s heartwarming to have a pal on hand when the dam breaks.

In an email recently, a friend used the expression, “a shoulder to cry on.” That beautiful word-picture describes one person sharing the heartache of another. It’s an image of a firm hug, two strong arms encircling someone whose arms hang limp, and a face buried in a shoulder. It’s warm, tender, compassionate.

God knows human suffering will always be part of this life, and we know it, too. When Jesus was a man, he experienced it daily, all the way through the supernatural torture of the cross. At a time when he was in desperate need, help didn’t come. No one offered a shoulder to cry on, because his choice was to suffer alone. But in doing so, he became our shoulder to cry on for the whole of our lives. It’s a spiritual oxymoron we can’t fully understand, and yet we know enough to realize we’ve benefitted significantly by what he did there.

Should we expect personal suffering? The only good answer is, “Of course!” If Jesus suffered so severely for us, why should we be exempt? And when struggles and challenges come, even severe tragedies, we shouldn’t ask, “Why me?” That question assumes we’re somehow above suffering, which is preposterous. If Jesus had to experience it, why not us, too?

The real question hidden inside our “why me” is, “Why can’t it be the guy down the street? Or the girl at the next desk? Why me?” That question isn’t good either, because it assumes we’re above those people.

The only valid question to ask God when we’re weeping is, “How do you want me to go through this distress/pain/anguish?” That question is excruciating, though, because it accepts the suffering, and none of us want to do that.

But here’s some good news. When God allows awful things to come to us, he becomes our shoulder to cry on, any time we need it. And he offers even more than that. Because he loves us passionately, he’s given us another shoulder-picture. He says we can actually rest between his shoulders. This portrays a strong person carrying a weak one on his back. I think of a young, energetic daddy picking up his tired boy, swinging him onto his muscular back and saddling his hands as a resting place for his weary child. God includes us in that scriptural picture.

Inevitably we’re going to suffer pain, shed tears and feel hopeless, but he’s our Father and invites us to get through it by pressing into him.

“The one the Lord loves rests between his shoulders.” (Deuteronomy 33:12b)

Sniffing the Road

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When Jack and I take our late-night walks, sometimes we don’t need a flashlight, but I carry one anyway. If a car approaches, I turn it on and point it toward Jack, since a driver might not see a black dog at night.

Once in a while when it’s time to take our last walk of the day, Jack is already dozing. If he’s been sleeping hard, it takes a few minutes to perk him up, even out in the cold. Some nights he drags behind me as if he’s walking in his sleep.

Last night was one of those nights, and since it was after 1:00 am, I wanted him to tend to business quickly. Trying to hurry him along, I whistled, then pretended to run ahead.  I even tossed a snowball down the road shouting, “Fetch!” Nothing helped.

Then I got an idea. I took out the flashlight and pointed it just ahead of my footsteps. The minute I did, he trotted from 20 feet behind me to just in front, walking near the light. If I moved the beam forward, he sped up. If I moved it back, he slowed down, as if he wasn’t sure of his step without seeing it clearly.

I could only conclude Jack doesn’t see very well. Most dogs have a keen sense of smell, #1 among their five senses. Jack walks along sniffing the road with high hopes he’ll smell something good. Suddenly he’ll pause to focus for several minutes on the same stinky spot, like we might pause in front of a beautiful painting, trying to take it in. It’s all about fun with his nose. Vision is probably at the bottom of a dog’s senses-list.

Since Nate died, sometimes I walk through life just like Jack, head down, “sniffing the road,” unsure of my step in the dark. But when I do that, opportunities get missed. There are people with eyes, like me, and then there are people with vision. Those with vision can see beyond what their eyes are looking at to what’s happening around them and what’s possible down the road. By comparison, I’m looking with tunnel vision.

Jack doesn’t worry about what he does or doesn’t see, because his well-developed nose compensates for his eyes. But I don’t have that advantage. Thankfully, though, God has perfect senses and is willing to use them for my benefit. He’s also a visionary, so he sees it all, everything that’s hidden in the dark and all the unseen possibilities still ahead. Much to my relief, he sees me, too, trudging along, “sniffing the road.” Since I can’t “smell opportunity,” I count on him to turn my head toward what he wants me to see.

One of my frequent prayers is that his messages will “hit me over the head.” Maybe I should add, “Do it with a flashlight.”

 

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Mark 14:38b)