I love living in Michigan, but there were some big losses when we moved from our old stomping grounds in Illinois. We grieved over leaving the church we’d attended for 21 years, The Orchard in Arlington Heights. Precious friendships were left behind, as well as a talented pastoral staff.

The head pastor, Colin Smith, had gone above and beyond in taking care of Nate and me. I remember back to one of his early sermons as our new pastor over a decade ago. When he preached that day, his words challenged me by raising new questions in my mind, so I jotted them down on the church bulletin, hoping to ponder them later.

Eventually I transferred my questions to the computer, all 57 of them, many with two or three parts. The problem came in figuring out how to get the answers. Feeling frustrated, I decided to send the list to Pastor Colin. If nothing else, it would prove to him he’d preached a great sermon that had his congregation thinking.

The next day I told Nate what I’d done. “Remember all those questions I scribbled down during the service yesterday?” He did. “I typed them up and sent the list to Colin.”

“How many questions?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Fifty-seven.”

“Fifty-seven questions? Were you expecting he would answer them all?”

“Not really.” I said. “Was it bad I sent them?”

Wanting to be kind, he said, “Well, I’m sure he’ll respond to you.” (Lawyers would call that a “non-answer.”)

Four days before Nate died, all of us sensed him barreling toward death at lightning speed. Wanting to make him comfortable, we continually questioned him, easily topping 57. “Can I get you anything? Would you like a drink of water? Are you cold? Can I warm up your coffee?”

Even the Hospice nurses came with an arsenal of queries. “How is your pain today? Where does it hurt most? Are your meds working?”

That evening I bent down in front of his lazy-boy hoping to make the end of his stressful day better. “Can I get you some juice? Would you like another ice pack for your back? Should I take your shoes off?”

He wasn’t talking much by that time, and none of us left enough space between questions to give him room to think, much less respond. Finally, he let us know about it. He raised his hand in front of me like a stop-sign and with great effort, slowly and deliberately said, “No… more… questions,” and then let his hand fall into his lap.

I was stunned. It hadn’t occurred to me every sentence I’d spoken to him that day had been a question. In my efforts to ease his misery, I’d only added to it.

From then on, all of us tried to catch ourselves when we started ticking off another list of inquiries. By the next day, not knowing he had only three days left, Nate struggled valiantly against pain. Along with increased meds came decreased speech. From his vantage point, that might have been a relief, because once he couldn’t answer, we stopped asking.

Generally it’s good to ask questions, but like all good things taken to an extreme, it can become damaging. I suppose a good question to ask ourselves would be, “Is my question necessary?” (Most of what we wanted to do for Nate could have been done without asking.)

After Pastor Colin received my 57 questions, he did respond, just as Nate said he would. “I read through all of them,” he said over the phone, unable to see my red face. “I believe asking sincere questions of God, as you have, can be an act of worship.”

Within that encouraging comment was the key: to whom are we bringing our questions? They ought to be taken to the person most qualified to answer. And if we’re asking questions only God can answer, the good news is he’s always eager to be asked. No question about it.

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8)

I was born to a wise father. He was “seasoned” when he married at 42 and up to that point had lived a life of integrity while overcoming obstacles. Age plus integrity plus overcoming equals wisdom.

Dad told us he never thought he’d live long enough to see his children graduate from high school, much less college. Children-in-law and grandchildren were off his radar, yet God blessed him with 92 years of near-perfect health and sound thinking. He saw his kids graduate from college, marry and deliver 15 of 17 grandchildren. Not bad for a late bloomer born in 1899.

Dad loved learning, and no subject was off limits. Coupled with a sharp memory, his accumulated knowledge was formidable. An architect and structural engineer by day, he became my high school math tutor by night. I struggled with algebra to the point of tears, which is when I’d look for Dad, knowing he’d never refuse to help me.

His tutoring, however, was torture. Approaching him for one quick answer, my heart would sink as I watched him thumb backwards through the textbook to “see where you’ve been.” He’d get so enamored with the numbers it took 20 minutes just to get back to the current assignment. And as with all wise people, he wouldn’t give out answers. Instead he tried to increase my understanding, and beyond that, to drag me into a happy relationship with math. (Negative on both counts.)

But oh, how I admired Dad. He wasn’t emotional like I was and didn’t burst into tears when life became overwhelming. He tackled problems methodically, demonstrating a skill that was foreign to me. When I needed wise guidelines for choosing a husband, Dad was ready and actually had a list: 1) Christian beliefs, 2) a sense of humor, 3) good health, 4) respect of family, 5) love of children. In the end, I married a man who passed muster on all five points. As a matter of fact, the man I chose was much like Dad.

Although I never had to solve another algebra problem after marrying, I often went to Nate for his opinion on other matters. He was endlessly patient and, just like Dad, would never turn me away. He often thought about our discussions long after they were over, coming up with additional possibilities days later. With all he had to worry about in the business world, I considered that to be true love.

When Nate died, death muzzled him. Although I have his past counsel and can guess how he might advise me about new dilemmas, the absence of his opinion is one of my greatest losses. As with most couples, we were opposites, and contemplating his flip side to my viewpoint always tempered what I would do next. His words coaxed me to think out of my box and gave me a level head.

Sometimes when I asked Nate for counsel, his advice was so far from my opinion, I struggled to believe that following it would be wise. But I’d remember that in the Lord’s couple-economy, the man was given headship and would, as a result of this God-established order, be given God’s wisdom, which he would then pass on to me.

If I followed Nate’s recommendation even when it seemed contrary to my own, things often turned out well. Knowing God protects and nurtures what he’s established, this shouldn’t have surprised me.

When Nate got cancer, I stopped asking for his opinion four weeks into the six he had left. The disease had begun superimposing its influence over his ideas, and I never knew which voice was talking. Thankfully I’m surrounded by other wise guides who’ve stepped willingly into the counselor role for me, again and again.

And at the top of them all is the Lord himself, our “wonderful Counselor.” (Isaiah 9:6) He’s already been my caring Father and heavenly Husband, so I have every reason to believe he’ll come through as my proficient Advisor in days to come. And just like Dad and Nate, I know he will never turn me away.

^“All that the Father gives me will come to me, and the one who comes to me I will certainly not cast out. For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me.” (John 6: 37-38)

I’ve always loved the BBC comedy show “Keeping Up Appearances.” In the Chicago area, it played at 7:30 pm every Saturday night. My mom also loved this program, especially the hilarious character at the center of every episode, Hyacinth Bucket, “…pronounced ‘Bou-quet’!”

For a year or so before Mom died, Nate graciously volunteered to eat Saturday evening dinners with his newspapers instead of his wife, letting me spend that weekly time with Mom in her apartment. I made dinner for the three of us, then packed up two plates to take to Mom’s, leaving Nate’s with him.

Every week Mom and I eagerly anticipated Saturday’s dinner-date with each other and “our Hyacinth”, laughing together over her misguided efforts to keep up with the Joneses and hopefully surpass them. If there was anything redeeming about that show, it was learning how not to act, but Mom and I had a delightful time watching Hyacinth scheme and dream.

As for Hyacinth’s name sake, a colorful spring bulb-flower, they’ve always been my favorites. Last Saturday Mary stepped into our door carrying a pot full of them, three hyacinths just on the verge of bursting into bloom. This early preview of spring would soon give off a rich perfume strong enough to fill the room. Even with my damaged olfactory nerves, I could smell trace amounts of their powerful scent, a rare treat.

This morning when I came downstairs, all three blooms had opened to-the-max. They were so lush and heavy, their stems were bent sideways. I rushed over and buried my nose in them, enjoying a spring moment in the middle of January, courtesy of my thoughtful sister.

Standing back to admire the hyacinths, I could see they needed more support than their hollow stems were offering. It was a picture of how I felt on many mornings, too, hollow and heavy. Finding an old garden stake in the basement corner, I snapped it in three pieces and gave them the support they needed. Problem solved.

It got me thinking about my situation. What is my garden stake?

I didn’t have to think long. The number one thing shoring me up when I’ve felt limp and low has been prayer, especially prayer that includes the words of Scripture. Praying by using verses of the Bible is my fail-safe way to claim the support and vigor God offers. On a really burdensome day, I can put my name right into the passage as I pray it. God doesn’t mind. After all, his promises are for each of us personally.

Praying through 1 Peter 5:7-9 has encouraged me today: “I’m casting all my worries and concerns on you, Lord, because you promise you’ll care for me. I’m asking you to keep me alert to the evil you tell me is prowling around like a wild animal. The devil wants to spoil my reliance on you as I try to get through this grief. Strengthen me to resist him and stand firm in my faith, knowing many others who trust you through tough times are doing exactly that, all over the world.”

The vivid word pictures of Scripture are helpful. Even today God delivered a fresh visual, the drooping hyacinths, to link me with the practical power in that 1 Peter passage. God was following through on his promise to care for me, reminding me of his provision within each day.

Although television’s Hyacinth demonstrated what not to do, nature’s hyacinth taught me to stay close to the strong stake of scriptural prayer. The results are more satisfying than even the best episode of “Keeping Up Appearances.”

“Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this [grief or pain], that it should leave me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses… hardships… and calamities, for when I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:8-10)