My Uncle Edward had a wonderfully affirming statement each of us heard on our birthdays: “God was good to us on…. “ and he filled in the birth date. My morning Facebook comment to Nelson today continued that tradition: “God was good to us on January 26, 1973.” That’s when our firstborn came into the world, ushering Nate and I into parenthood and changing everything. Nelson turned 37 today in Honolulu, Hawaii, where he’s rehabbing a high-end condo with a friend. I text him pictures of icicles. He texts me pictures of palm trees.

This baby arrived weighing 10 pounds and suffering the intense pain of colic. Our entrance into parenting was accompanied by round-the-clock screaming and a newborn who grew skinnier each week for ten in a row. We were beside ourselves with worry until the morning he suddenly awoke smiling. The colic and crying were gone, and life with baby Nelson became a delight.

By the time he was three, his vocabulary was extensive and his thoughts deep. He said, “Why do I have to put the toilet seat down when half the people are boys? You should tell the girls to put it up when they’re done.”  Nelson has always had a good “thinker”.

In recent weeks when Nate was sick, the father-son roles reversed and it was Nelson’s turn to tend to Nate round-the-clock, which he willingly did. Since then, he and I have had many a fireside chat, round-tabling the harsher realities of life (and death). His deep roots in Scripture have kept us on truth’s track, and I’ve learned much from this son.

As a teen Nelson gave Nate and me a run for the money. Firstborns have a difficult assignment, being at the head of the pack, having to break all the new ground. It’s a burden to be defined as the good example for those following, not to mention the problem of having parents who don’t know what they’re doing.

Although Nelson and his father weren’t cut from the same cloth, they listened carefully to each other and grew to appreciate their differences. When Nelson was acting out in high school and continued with some bad choices for a time after that, I often grew frustrated and wanted to lash out in verbal judgment. Nate inevitably calmed me with “wait a minute” and became the father of second chances. Eventually Nelson surpassed our best expectations.

He has traveled the world, much of it in conjunction with Youth With A Mission, first as a student and later as a leader. He has friends everywhere and keeps current with each one, managing to be on hand for milestone events in many of their lives.

Last summer he felt it was important to sell his landscaping company in Tennessee, a business he’d pursued with vigor for 15 years. At the time, he said he felt like the biblical Abraham who was told to leave the familiar for the unknown. Nelson sensed it was God pushing him, so he moved forward in faith, knowing the reason for leaving landscaping would become clear in God’s time.

Within two weeks a buyer had stepped forward and the business was sold. After Nate and I learned of his pancreatic cancer, Nelson was the first one to walk through our door in Michigan, unencumbered by September’s busy landscaping season and free to be with us for the duration.

One of Nelson’s many talents is enabling others to use their gifts. He’s a pro at delegating responsibilities and releasing control so others can shine. He can also fix what’s broken, build up what’s broken down and minister to broken hearts.

His top priorities are to know more of God and his Word, to obey what he learns there and to be available to others. In Nate’s last days, he referred to Nelson as “a son with sterling character,” which is exactly what happens when someone strives to live like Christ. No parent could want more.

And once in a while I still find the toilet seat up, which proves he’s still promoting his equal opportunity program with consistency.

“Because he loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble. I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation.” (Psalm 91:14-16)

Some of my widow warriors were unable to dismantle their husband’s closet for a year, telling me they found comfort in smelling his jackets or wearing his shirts. Others said it was torture having his clothes in their usual places, a daily visual of him that couldn’t be completed by his presence. I fall somewhere between them.

When I sent a group email to our children asking if they’d like any of their father’s clothes, it was satisfying when some asked for a necktie or a t-shirt. His black socks were popular, and his flannel shirts went. I kept his bath robe. But most of Nate’s wardrobe consisted of white dress shirts and dark suits in sizes too big for his four lean sons.

Nate wasn’t a clothes horse by any means and didn’t think twice about wearing a shirt with ink stains on the pocket. Most of his ties were, as he put it, “christened” with a splotch of salad dressing, and because he carried quarters in his suit pockets (for commuter train parking lots), many had holes.

“I use my clothes till they’re used up,” he’d say.

Looking through his closet and drawers, I didn’t see much of value, but to someone with nothing, a worn shirt is better than none. I surveyed our hall closet and thought of people on Chicago streets who could use Nate’s four warm coats, a motivation to get everything bagged up and given away. Its winter in the Midwest, and Nate’s coats weren’t helping a soul.

As I began taking things off the hangers and lifting clothes from the drawers, I felt funny “taking” them. My mind told me, “They’re not yours. Put them back.”

I remember the same feeling when my mom invited Mary and I to “take whatever you want” from our Aunt Agnes’ drawers after she died. This meticulous, private, elderly aunt had never in her lifetime allowed us to look through her drawers. It was almost impossible to take something in good conscience.

Of course I’d handled Nate’s clothes hundreds of times, washing, folding and putting away, again and again. Taking them out, however, was new. As I stood at the closet fingering his suit jackets, it swept over me how faithful he’d been to go to work each day. I didn’t know until after he’d died, what intense pain he was feeling as he dressed each morning.

Once in a while he’d tell me about another lawyer he watched in court who dressed in custom-made three thousand dollar suits and silk ties. “Clothes don’t make the man,” I’d say. I suppose Nate would have felt self-assured in a custom suit, but I often told him he looked handsome, like “a butter and egg man,” as he left the house each morning.

When I knelt to pack up Nate’s shoes, there were his brand new cowboy boots. He wore cowboy boots instead of motorcycle boots when he and the boys would ride their motorcycles together. After foot surgery for bunions and bone spurs, his old boots no longer fit. I bought him new ones, but the extra wide width he needed came with too much length. Putting the boots in a bag, I stopped to pray God would connect them with a man who’d always wished for a pair just like that.

Thinking of how Nate’s clothes might bless others was a great motivator. At the end of the packing process, it dawned on me like the proverbial bright idea (ding!) that there was now extra closet space. Drawers, too, were available. And suddenly the task seemed like Nate’s gift to me rather than my invasion of his privacy.

He doesn’t need his ink-stained, holes-in-the-pockets clothes anymore. I’m not sure what he’s wearing now, but anything made in heaven has to be better than what he wore on earth, trumping even a three thousand dollar suit.

^“The angel said to those who were standing before him, ‘Take off his filthy clothes.’ Then he said to Joshua, ‘See, I have taken away your sin, and I will put rich garments on you’.” (Zechariah 3:4)

They say a dog is man’s best friend, but for me, it’s all about a woman. I like to call her “Midge”. Our relationship began when she and the girls sprung me from a chain link cage at an animal shelter back in 2003. I was only 9 months old at the time, confused and sad to have been dropped off there in the first place. I would have gone with anyone who’d have taken me.

The girls named me after some character in a pirate movie, Captain Jack. As far as I can tell, my main function in this family is to allow everyone to love me. I willingly put up with group hugs that squeeze my middle and pats on the head that make me blink. I also tolerate kisses on the sides of my face and occasionally a full body bath, after which I’m hugged, patted and kissed even more than usual.

Most of my days are spent following Midge around. She likes having me nearby, and I like that, too. If she leaves a room, I usually follow. If she goes upstairs, I go, too. If she shuts the bathroom door, I wait just outside. I understand everything she says to me and do my best to look intelligent when she says it.

Midge and I have walked miles together over the years, and we try to get to the beach every day, even if it’s stormy. She tells me my black coat gets soft and shiny after rain or snow has soaked me. As we walk, I do a lot of sniffing and snoofing, but I always keep one eye on Midge, making sure we don’t get too far apart. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

Recently there was a major shift in our home. I can’t tell you exactly what happened, but I know that Midge’s husband, Pidge, doesn’t come through the front door holding his briefcase and coffee mug anymore. I used to greet him with enthusiastic wags, and he’d give me a few reassuring pats. I never-but-never would jump on him. He had a suit on, for goodness sake.

A couple of weeks ago, Pidge drove in the driveway. At least I thought it was him. His car turned in, just like old times, and I ran out to greet him,  happy he was finally home! But when the door opened, it was Klaus. Pidge never appeared, which was a shame, because his absence has been a problem for Midge.

Sometimes she makes strange noises. She sniffs and sobs. When this happens, I move in close. I focus my brown eyes directly on her face and just wait like that till the sniffs and sobs end. Sometimes she’ll tell me what she’s crying about, but other times she just reaches down and strokes my back. She could do anything she wanted to me at those times, and I’d still stay right next to her.

Today I overheard a conversation I could hardly believe. Midge told Louisa and Birgitta that when they drive to Florida to help with the new baby, they’re going to take me along! I was so ecstatic, I almost wet the rug, but that kind of thing is frowned upon.

As for travel skills, I get A+, sleeping quietly in the car for hours at a time. I think the reason they’ll be taking me is strictly for Skylar. She’s a fast-moving mini-person who thinks I’m her plaything. I have to be on red alert when she’s around, but toddler-love is a small price to pay to be included on the road trip. The words “Jack, you have to stay” are the last words I ever want to hear.

For some reason Midge told the girls I’d have to stay behind when she goes to England in the spring to help with a couple of other new babies. I try not to think about that. I heard Midge’s sister Modge say she’d be willing to let me stay with my cousin-dog Sydney during that time, which would be a major treat, but I know she’ll have to OK that with Podge first.

Oh boy, there’s Midge with my leash. Gotta run.

“A friend loves at all times.” (Proverbs 17:17a)