Recently I met with a friend who I hadn’t seen since before Nate’s cancer. After we shared a hello and a hug, she said, “Well, I sure can see this whole thing has taken a big toll on you.”

I think she meant I looked worn and haggard. That’s certainly how I felt. Ongoing grief is exhausting. Just when you think the worst is over, a new wave of sadness washes over you like an icy dousing without warning. It’s similar to watching a sand castle get swamped when a wave rolls past its natural boundary and overwhelms it.

The interesting thing about waves of grief is that they’re much like waves of water. They rush in, but they also rush out again, usually fairly quickly. I think of the fun of a wavy day at the beach when we were kids and how we bobbed on the surface, using the waves to our advantage, until a big one crashed overhead. Then it was tumble and toss, often with water going up our noses, until we could get our footing again and come up for air.

Waves of grief are much like that. We’re moving through a day successfully when unexpectedly a wave knocks us down and floods us with tears. That happened to me today as I sat at the dining room table writing a few notes. I was answering a letter in which a friend had written, “We want to continue getting together with you,” and all of a sudden I was crying. A picture of the four of us came to mind, engaged in lively conversation, except that it was only three of us, a sad scene I couldn’t bear.

My crying lasted about three minutes. I had to get up to find some Kleenex but shortly after that was back finishing the note. A wave had broken over me but had quickly receded, just like at the beach.

God separated the dry land from the sea at creation, defining the boundaries of the waves, and he separates waves of grief from those who mourn, defining those boundaries as well. In both cases, he lets the waves come, but it’s “this far and no farther” as he controls their power.

An interesting thing has happened to the waves of Lake Michigan this week. With the colder temperatures, water that has splashed up on the snow-covered beach has frozen into lumps of sandy ice. Each wave has added another layer to the lump until mounds of ice have grown too high to see over. Climbing up the slick hills is nearly impossible with regular snow boots. Jack has an advantage with his claws, but even he slips and slides backwards now and then.

The mounds of ice continue to grow in height. Wild waves hit the icy ridge with a crash so powerful it causes water to splash ten feet into the air, landing atop the hill and rapidly freezing, thus adding new height. Unlike summertime waves that roll up and quickly fall back, these waves rise and freeze, one atop another.

Grief is like that, too. If we hold back the tears and don’t allow ourselves to experience the sadness, grief freezes inside of us, building layer upon layer until it becomes a mountain beyond which we can’t see. It’s much better to let it surge up, come out in tears and then recede.

When I break down and have to stop what I’m doing to be sad for a few minutes, I ought to also be glad, knowing God’s healing is in process. He’s keeping a watchful eye on those waves, and when they wash up too far or come too close together, he moves in to force them back. If I let them come flowing out in tears, they’ll never be able to freeze up (and mound up) deep inside.

^“You [Lord] rule over the surging sea; when its waves mount up, you still them.” (Psalm 89:9)

“I [declares the Lord] made the sand a boundary for the sea, an everlasting barrier it cannot cross. The waves may roll, but they cannot prevail; they may roar, but they cannot cross it.” (Jeremiah 5:22)

My husband loved to give me jewelry. His dad owned a jewelry store, and he’d worked there in different capacities during summers as a teen and then as a college student. He learned how to polish silver, how to deal with the public and how to make a woman happy: by bringing her something from a jewelry store.

The first piece of jewelry he gave me was a delicate necklace made of silver in a starburst design with diamond chips around the outside and a pearl in the center. He gave it to me at Christmas, the year before we got engaged, sending the message he was serious about our relationship. Over the years I’ve received bracelets, broaches, rings, pendants and earrings, all lovely. But the most creative piece went above and beyond all of those.

When Nate was in law school, he participated in ROTC, entering the U. S. Army as a reservist. The Viet Nam War was raging, and by voluntarily enlisting, he beat the draft and a sure assignment to ‘Nam.

When he went on active duty, he was issued a pair of identical ID tags informally called “dog tags.” They were worn around the neck on a 24” ball-chain at all times. Made of aluminum, they wouldn’t corrode or burn. If a soldier was wounded or killed, one tag was taken to the record-keeping officer, the other left on his body for accurate ID.

Nate never went to Viet Nam, a blessing to us as young marrieds. After he received his honorable discharge, his pair of dog tags went into a dresser drawer.

Around the time of our 25^th anniversary, he retrieved one of these tags and took it to a jeweler friend, asking him to dip it in gold as a pendant for me. The dog tags represented our safe passage through a dangerous time in America’s history, and he knew I’d understand the significance.

When I opened the blue velvet jewelry box on our anniversary, I was delighted. Next to the regulation dog tag, now gilded in gold, was a mini-tag, also gold. He’d had it engraved with the Scripture that was inside both our wedding bands: “My beloved is mine, and I am his.” (Song of Solomon 2:16)

On the back it read, “11-29-69, until the end of time.” He’d carved his promise to be my husband until time ran out. Today as I fingered the necklace, his inscription took on new meaning. Time had indeed run out on our marriage, and Nate had kept his promise 100%. My heart was flooded with gratitude and deep respect.

The five lines on every dog tag are a distilled summary of that soldier’s life:

• Line one, his surname.
• Line two, his given name and middle initial.
• Line three, his social security number.
• Line four, his blood type.
• Line five, his “brand” of religion.

At the moment of death, these hard, cold facts are the only things that matter: who you are, and where you’re going.

There are several spiritual parallels to military dog tags. God knows each of us by name and invites us to the sure knowledge of where we’ll go immediately after dying. When life has boiled down to its bare minimum, dog tag data is all that counts.

But God doesn’t need ID tags to keep us all straight. He actually offers to carve our names into his hand as a way of showing us how much we mean to him. He doesn’t ask us to carve his name on ourselves once we belong to him but does it the other way around. It’s as if he says, “I’m holding your information. It doesn’t have to be stamped into aluminum to evade corrosion or fire. It doesn’t have to be strung on a ball-chain or hung around your neck. And there doesn’t need to be two copies, because who you are and where you’re going is supernaturally protected from all harm.”

Nate made a promise to me, “until the end of time.” God made a promise to all of us, “until the end of time, and throughout eternity.”

“See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” (Isaiah 49:16a)

“But now, this is what the LORD says— he who created you… ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.’ ” (Isaiah 43:1)

When our Hans was two, I often said, “Hans, come over here.” He would toddle up to me, and I’d say it again. “Hans, come here.”

Then he’d say, “But I am come-here-d.” And I’d laugh and scoop him up for a hug.

Eventually he figured out this ritual had nothing to do with asking him to come over and everything to do with what he said when he got there. Eventually he’d run to me without having been called and say, “I’m come-here-d, Mama!” waiting for the hug to follow.

Every parent has a million of these happy memories tucked away in a mental treasure chest. They’re part of the family narrative, bits of glue that bond individuals together.

Hans is married now, has a family and lives 4000 miles away in England, but because of our shared memories, we remain close. He’s making new history now, and I’m not part of it. Gradually as the years go by, more and more of his time will be lived with others, which of course is how life goes.

When I think about Nate, the situation has several parallels. He and I each had our parent-child relationships for 20 years before we met, after which we began making memories together. The toddler-Hans memory was just one small part of what Nate and I shared.

Then he died. His departure was similar to when Hans moved to England. Both left quickly, and distances were great, but when Nate moved, he relocated farther away than any point on our globe. I can still get to my son but can no longer get to my husband.

As I think about Nate in his new life in that hidden world, I know he’s making a million fresh memories, none of which include me. The flip side of that scenario is also true. The memories I’m making, many of them delightful, no longer include Nate. For example, although he’d planned to live with me in Michigan, I’m experiencing my first winter in the “summer cottage” without him. Also, this year I’ll turn 65, and all the jokes we made about signing up together for Medicare now only apply to me. I will continue to age, but his birthdays stopped at 64.

Three of his grandchildren will join our family in the next three months, none of whom will know their grandpa. My travel to help with these babies and their toddler siblings, full of bright moments, will occur without him. Our family reunion this fall, returning to a place Nate chose and loved, will be full of satisfaction and significance for all of us, except Nate.

I believe these thoughts are God’s gift to me, encouraging me toward the future. Although my first choice would have been for our family leader to still be leading, the Lord is leading now and is hinting at wonderful memory-making to come. The fact that Nate is a million miles away having a spectacular time without me doesn’t mean I ought not to keep making happy memories right here where he left me.

I believe Nate and I will always be who we are, even in the hereafter. God went to the trouble to design people to be unique, each different from all the others. Why would he homogenize us in heaven? Just as Jesus prompted his friends to notice he was the same recognizable person after his resurrection as before, I think Nate will be the same recognizable man when I see him again.

Once in heaven, we’ll most likely remember our earthly history together while catching up on the separate memories we’ve made during our time apart. The Bible says there are no marriage partners in heaven, but I’m sure Nate and I will be good friends, just as we were on earth, but better.

Erwin Lutzer, one of my favorite pastors, said, “Death breaks ties on earth but renews them in heaven.” I believe it wholeheartedly. In the mean time, I’ll do what Nate did. I’ll “soldier on” and take pleasure in making memories where I am.

Eventually God will ask me to “Come here,” and one day I’ll be standing next to him, thrilled to say, “I am come-here-d!” And after I get my hug, I’ll look up, and there will be Nate.

“God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus.” (Ephesians 2:6-7)