Last night I took a box of Kleenex to bed with me. If I hadn’t, the pillow would have been soaked. This wave of grief wasn’t a tsunami, but it wasn’t a small ripple, either. It was simply a forceful longing to be with Nate. As I lay on my back holding a tissue at the side of each eye to catch the streams, I thought about how bad I was going to look in the morning, crying that hard before going to sleep. In reality, grieving isn’t pretty no matter when it comes.

If someone had sat down on the side of my bed last night and asked, “Why are you crying tonight, when this morning you were fine?” I wouldn’t have had an answer. All I knew then was that I missed Nate intensely. During the night a second wave came, and in the morning, a third. Then I cried while doing dishes, while talking to neighbors, while checking out at Walmart, while conversing with our girls.

Tonight, finally, my wavy day ended, because God said, “This far and no farther.” Whew.

Grieving for Nate looks a little different in each of us. I think some of our children are angry, others are depressed, one is trying to think away from it altogether. Yesterday I studied photographs taken over the two days of Nate’s wake and funeral. I looked carefully at my children where they appeared in the pictures, particularly if they were in the background. What I saw was heaviness, sorrow, pain.

I have moments, even hours of sadness, which is OK. But when I watch our children go through this same agony, my heart breaks. Mary always tells her children, “Remember, I’m the only one who would jump in front of a truck for you.” If I could get between my kids and the truck load of grief each is carrying, I would. But that might be like helping the chicken crack out of its egg, doing more harm than good.

Louisa, Birgitta and I were chatting tonight about the tough times in life and how we try hard to get through, around or over them a.s.a.p. Only a fool would say, “I’m really enjoying this misery and hope it never ends.”

But impatience seems to overwhelm endurance, and we become irritated when there’s no visible value in a situation. The girls and I looked back at several family stress points, hunting for the proverbial good-coming-from-bad. We successfully saw some of that, which builds hope into us that today’s difficulties will yield tomorrow’s good.

This morphed into a dialogue on how to see God’s activity in the world and, more importantly, how to hear from him personally. The answer to that one is complicated, and we talked about it for quite a while.

Jesus told his closest friends he understood it was difficult for them to believe he’d actually risen from the dead. When they finally got it, he said, “You have the advantage of standing here looking at me, listening to my voice, touching me. What about after I’m gone? It’ll be much harder for them. I’ve reserved special blessing for those who believe in me.”

The girls and I agreed he was talking about us.

So, if we’re willing to take God at his word, to believe he’ll lead us, answer our prayers and help us with decisions, he’s going to give us extra perks of some sort. Being singled out for God’s special treatment is a privileged place to be.

Tonight when I put my head on the pillow, instead of being grateful for a box of Kleenex, my gratitude will be for honest conversation with two hurting daughters. They’re looking for God in new ways as a result of their Papa’s death, which amounts to something good already coming from something bad. Tonight, the Lord gave us a peek at some of those special perks he promised.

”Then Jesus told him, ‘Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (John 20:29)

Dear God,

You do all things well. Looking back over the last year, I can see your presence running through the weeks like shoelaces through the eyelets of a sneaker. As I moved up and down, in and out, you did, too.

A year ago this week, Nate’s dull backache escalated to piercing pain. The guy who had arrived home from work routinely at 7:00 pm for 37 years began walking through the door at 4:00, then 2:00, then noon. His pain dominated everything. Twenty-six chiropractic appointments didn’t help. Visits to back specialists helped only by giving him the hope that surgery would fix things, at least for a while.

But then they found the cancer, and we learned nothing could fix that, unless you did. But you removed Nate from this world instead, separating him from his physical agony, his business pressures and us.

I trust you 100%, Lord. Even on the days when my heart says it wasn’t a good thing, my mouth praises you, because you do all things well, even this. I know it’s too soon to understand, and my lack of knowing isn’t reason enough to say, “But this, you didn’t do well.” You’ve never made a mistake, which means Nate’s death was purposeful.

I look back to early summer and remember the process of starting the blog, not realizing it was you who named it and you who assigned it to me. I just wanted to practice my writing. You wanted to use it as a channel of blessing to others. GettingThroughThis.com is all yours. Yet somehow you’ve allowed me to partner with you (a junior partner, to be sure). You take my inadequate sentences and pluck words from the air to show me how to do it better. Yes, you do things well.

This morning when you and I talked, I was whining about the 24 books I’ve been given by precious friends, because I can’t read them all. I was expressing frustration at the many times I’ve been asked to go out with people who are lovingly caring for me, because I can’t go with them all. I was also bemoaning having to be on the phone too much, having to run too many errands, having to participate in regular life. And it was as if you asked, “So what do you want to do?”

As I’ve thought about that, I think my answer reflects that I’m in mourning for my husband. I wouldn’t have called it mourning, because on the outside everything looks fine. And when people say, “How are you doing?” I answer, “Oh, I’m OK.” But the way I desire to spend each day is not the old Margaret who loved to be out-and-about, loved to chit-chat with people, loved a full calendar and loved to have company. Maybe I’m cocooning or circling the wagons. Whatever it’s called, it’s a different me. The only answer can be that it’s my response to the sadness of Nate’s death.

He died 2½ months ago, and it still feels fresh. So you asked, Lord, what do I want to do with my days? Only four things:

1. Talk to you
2. Dig for biblical gold
3. Write the blog
4. Walk with Jack

That’s all.

Thank you for the word picture you gave me after our teary conversation this morning. (And I’m glad it was only me crying and not you, too!) I see myself snuggled under a warm down quilt, resting beneath the open windows overhead. The fresh winter air is sweet, and I’m warm. I asked you if this was a picture of selfishness, and you answered with Luke 13:34 where Jesus said he longed to gather his own people “as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings.” My picture is much like yours, except that my hen is a quilt. The hen feathers and quilt feathers, though, are really all you. I’m taking that scriptural picture as your “OK” that I spend these days backing away from doing regular life and instead concentrating on those four things. Thank you for hearing me and responding back so well.

I pray in the name of Jesus, Amen.

“They were astonished beyond measure, saying, ‘He has done all things well’.” (Mark 7:37a)

Nate often told the story of a client who asked him, “Do you have a family?”

“Seven kids,” he said.

The man’s eyes grew wide. “And how many wives?”

This line cued Nate’s hearty laugh. He was proud of his brood, evidenced by the abundance of photos filling his office, including the gallery taped to his door. But every family goes through periods of stress and strain, even the families where love abounds.

It was during one of those difficult periods that I learned, by way of a home pregnancy test, we’d be having another baby. Nate’s thriving real estate investment firm had completely unraveled due to a governmental rule change, and we were at the lowest point of our marriage, our family life and our bank account.

I hesitated to tell Nate our numbers would be expanding during a time when everything else was contracting, so I kept the secret until I was two months along. But I knew “my” news needed to become “our” news, despite life’s pressure. So we were just climbing into bed one night after closing the nursery door on our 11 month old baby when I told him. Wondering what his unfiltered response would be, I hoped it wouldn’t encircle our blessed event with a negative mindset.

“Hey, Dear. What would you say … uh … if I told you … uh we were going to have another baby?”

I had to hand it to Nate. He filtered his response with lightning speed. Before even changing expression he said, “Let’s pray.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Relief washed over me while concern probably flooded him, but he didn’t let on. He prayed a short prayer over the little one and me, no doubt borrowing time to get his thoughts organized, and then said, “I think I’m going to take a bath and read a little.” Never mind that he’d just taken one. The bathtub was his think tank, and it was the right place to go.

When I was nearing my second trimester, the bleeding started, and after six routine pregnancies, I knew something was amiss. Nate was an hour away in his Loop office but urged me to “Call the doctor!”

After folding a thick bath towel over the driver’s seat, I drove myself to the doctor’s office. By the time I arrived, blood was everywhere. The receptionist saw my emergency and hurried me into a room, shaking her head with a frown, which confirmed what I already knew.

The miscarriage occurred right in the office, and the doctor “caught” our baby in a pan. I wept as a nurse patted my hand, doing her best to console me. Because we’d already announced the news to family and friends, we had to announce the miscarriage, too.

The day after our loss, I remember kneeling over the edge of the bathtub washing my hair. Water rushed over my head as I tried to use Nate’s think tank to think. “Lord,” I wailed, “Who was that person? I want to know!”

Nate was buried by problems and losses all his own and could have reacted to the miscarriage like someone who’d ducked a burden, but his response was one of genuine compassion.

As the due date for the miscarried baby drew closer, I steeled myself for an emotional day. It was poignant indeed, because on that very afternoon, I learned I was pregnant with another baby.

This time I couldn’t wait to tell Nate. Because of the miscarriage, both of us responded with joy, and Birgitta Mary soon joined our family, an easy baby who delighted us all. God works in ways we can’t usually understand, but once in a while he reveals one of his secrets. He has shared two of them with me, and I treasure them both:

First, if we hadn’t miscarried our baby back then, we wouldn’t have our precious Birgitta today.

Second, Nate now knows who Baby Eight is, and since November 3rd has been enjoying a genuine relationship with him or her. What an incredible meeting that must have been!

“Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher than the heavens—what can you do? They are deeper than the depths of the grave —what can you know?” (Job 11:7-8)