Chocolate Holiday

A few weeks ago a friend of mine invited me for a women only weekend away. At first I was a little hesitant in accepting the invite. With kids coming and going, a husband with a demanding job, not to mention my own work, it seemed slightly impossible to escape the mad rush for a whole weekend. Besides, I usually really hate sleeping by myself—I imagined the lonely nights without Ken.

However, after the idea see-sawed inside my brain, I finally came to the conclusion that the world would not collapse if I stepped off it for a couple of days. So on Friday night at 5 PM the adventure began. We sailed off in a mini-van of blue filled with five woman and enough luggage to make it bottom out on the way out of my drive.

That problem stems from the fact that we are all mothers and have been so afflicted for many years. With seventeen kids between us each of us had a mental list of things we need to take with, and a second list of the things we might need and the final list of the things we probably won’t need, but took just in case somebody else needed them.

We travelled south on lovely curving country lanes until finally the waters of Lake Erie started to appear on the horizon. Arriving at the A-frame cottage we dragged everything in, found our rooms and began the normally arduous job of unpacking. However with five moms in the mix the job was quick and painless and with meals already been divvied up, the chief cook for that evening suited up and set the pizzas in the oven to bake. We put away the food, stuffing the fridge to bursting.

I looked around and felt the relaxation already seeping into my bones. Then one of the girls revealed her secret dish, “Sex-in-a-pan,” the main ingredients being chocolate and whipped cream. I knew then and there that I was not going to regret the time away for an instant. We laughed, we ate and when we left on Sunday night for home we all stared at that disappearing A-frame in the rear view mirror with a sigh.

My family met me at the door with hugs and flowers, and a warm feeling settled in my heart. But even as my kids pulled me toward the house I looked over my shoulder to watch till the blue van was just a smudge on the horizon. And I knew that next year there’d be no see-saw of deliberation—I’m already hoping that her secret chocolate pie will be on the menu…

Sex In A Pan


Messy Room War

Its spring and I am on a cleaning rampage…

Oh not the usual clean-my-house thing—that may yet come. Instead, I have laid siege to my children’s bedrooms. The disaster slowly crept up until their floors were regularly obscured by clothes, papers and an undisclosed amount of half-emptied Tupperware containers, the remains of school lunches growing mold at an alarming rate! I woke up on Saturday and had enough. No more threats, no more bargaining. I stood on tiptoes and looked my kids in the eye and in front of witnesses laid out the new rules. No clothes, no books, no garbage, no nothin’ on their floors. Anything left behind will be promptly deposited on the cold dark cement of our garage floor. If after a week it still remains, it will be sent to the second-hand store of my choice—probably the Bible for Missions store, just down the hill.

My youngest daughter rolled her eyes and smiled benevolently at me. She’d heard many threats before, and this latest one did little to impress her. However, when she arrived home from school Monday afternoon to the gleaming cleared floor of her bedroom the squawking began. Her main concern? The Easter chocolate she’d left out. I smiled and pointed to my mouth—offering her a quick thank you for her contribution to the “help keep mom sane” fund. She glowered and stomped out the garage to retrieve her other things. I’d declared war and so war it was.

By the time she returned to the kitchen where I stood preparing a salad, she challenged to check out my room. With the flick of my wrist I pointed her in that direction and offered for her to take a look. This child of mine had been in my heart for more than 15 years—I knew the devious paths of her mind and had spent an hour preparing. My room was immaculate—even books that usually sat in an uneven pile on the floor by my bedside were safely tucked away. She scoured the room for offending items and finally crowed triumphant. There was junk under my bed—I too should be punished for my sin!

Shaking my head I gently asked if she wanted me to go check under her bed. She frowned and like Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes fame, she considered and discarded several plans of attack. I watched as one thought then another flitted across her face before she slipped into my closet and scooping up a chocolate from my stash, sauntered from the room, head held high. I ignored her theft and tuned out more grumbling as I returned to dinner prep.

This morning she again huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf. Disgust dripped from her lips as she reiterated her disapproval of this latest barrage against messy room syndrome. Whining and complaining, she dashed around the living room and bedroom to clean up a stream of junk that she’d dumped along that route the previous evening. Finally, stomping back to the living room just as her father started hollering for my hoard to get in the car. He was her ride to the bus stop, so she complained a little louder and a little faster, almost forgetting her lunch in the process. It was my turn to roll my eyes, but with a quick hug I closed the door behind the noisy lot and walked down the hall to survey her bedroom. I almost staggered in amazement—the floor, I could actually see the floor!

And so the battle is on…

Will the complaining wear me down? Will the mess slowly creep back? The future is unclear, but for today, I will savor this small victory.  I can walk down the hall and my senses are not assaulted by the chaos that regularly reigns in her room. Instead the butter yellow walls and the gleaming oak floors send a song into my heart and at least for today there is peace.Calvin and Hobbes evil devious lovable


Allen, the cat.

I hate cats. I’m just one of those people who cringe every time a furry feline sidles up to me. I’m sorry for offending the other half of the population who like them, but to be perfectly honest I just don’t get the whole cat thing. You do know that cat hair sticks to everything, right? Tufts of hair cling to the couch, the chair, my clothes! Why even as I look up into the dappled spring sunshine sifting through my kitchen window I can see air born hairs floating towards me. Ick! Okay, I know what you’re thinking—if I just brushed it daily, I wouldn’t have all these problems. But first, let’s clear up the first misconception–this walking allergy is not my cat. It belongs to my daughter. Who totally gets the cat thing. In fact, if the house were burning down, she would save the cat first, and everything else—including me—next.

So I am unfortunately stuck with the whiny fluff-ball for a time yet undetermined. More unfortunately, this cat is the size of a small city. I looked it up and I’d lay bets it’s related to those Mainecoon type cats—either that or a lynx. Do you know how fast a litter box fills up with a cat that size? Enough said.

What’s even worse, the thing is now having stomach issues—a form of cat bulimia. So I went to the cat food store to buy some new food and told the salesperson all about my cat problem. Somehow, from the curl of distaste around my mouth she immediately jumped to the conclusion that I didn’t really like cats. She straightened, narrowed eyed, the way only a person into cats can do and I knew that she knew. But either way, I was a customer and she pasted a smile on her face and readily recommended a bag of food. At a price that was enough to feed a small city. I turned to comment on that, but her pursed lips had me snapping my mouth closed. As meekly as I could muster, I asked how much food I should be giving the thing. She asked me how big it was. “Big,” I said, “Really big.” She rolled her eyes and immediately assumed I was exaggerating. “Well,” her rolling-eyed-indulgent-smile still firmly stuck to her lips, “It’s probably no more than 12 pounds so give it a cup a day.” I tapped one finger to my lips. My last child was almost 10 pounds of squalling chubbiness. I pictured the cat and pictured the child then looked back at the sales lady, shifting my head back and forth skeptically, “Okay?” She ignored the question in my response and rang up the bill. I sealed my lips and pulled out my wallet.

Taking the food home I took one look at the cat again as I walked through the door.  I dropped the bag and putting aside my squeamish stomach I hauled it down the hall to the bathroom. After several moments of wrestling with a large heavy pile of fur, I peered over the hefty body to eye the number of the scale. After a quick estimate in my head I realized why my arms were already sore. The thing in my arms was more than 20 pounds of lean meowing grumpy hairiness.

I realized then and there that I should have purchased more food—dropping enough cash to feed to two small cities. Perhaps then we’d get through to the end of the week. I allowed the thing to plunk to the ground and we both walked away from each other grumbling under our breath.

I paced in the hall and came up with a plan to rid my home of this drain on my wallet. I waited until my daughter arrived home from school—ready to pounce as soon as she walked through the door. The cat—in its own uncanny catness way was also waiting when the kids came home. And just as I was about to open my mouth my daughter’s eyes lit on her cat. You could see the stress of her day fall away as she leaned down and filled her arms with cat. It didn’t grumble for her—just purred with contentment. And I swear as the two walked down the hall, the cat peered over her shoulder and smiled. So the cat will stay for another day. But I don’t have to like it.Image


It was just one of those days…

Today was one of those days. I started to wonder what I did wrong! First of all, I’d planned on having a “Mary Ann” day. A day dedicated to the pursuit of Mary Ann’s happiness. I don’t get very many of those and I just wanted one!

The day started out great. I got my kids and my husband out of the house in prodigious time. Check. Next it was my mom’s turn. She stayed over because she had minor eye surgery the day before. Two weeks earlier she had the first eye done and it was no big deal. Not so much today.

At first I didn’t take great notice. She took her time packing up her stuff as I sorted laundry and started a load. Ambitiously, I even decided to dye a load of faded jeans and the like in the laundry tub. I left the clothes to soak for a few hours, to allow the dye to set well. In the meantime, I threw together supper—using left-overs to produce a delicious pot of cream of potato soup.

It was then I noticed my mother’s pale and wan features. She wanted to help cut up veges for my soup, but her vision wasn’t very clear and I wondered how she would drive home in that state. When she asked if I could take her grocery shopping, I weighed my options for a moment. Realizing that I could get a few of my own errands done in the process I readily agreed. Besides, I can hardly say no my 80+ mother who just had eye surgery—I’m sure there’s a rule in the mother-daughter hand-book somewhere.

Our first stop was the grade school. I’d been putting off making copies of an important document for my husband and today was the day he absolutely had to have them! You guessed it; on arrival I found that the copier was broken. In an effort to save the day I went to Staples and found they wanted a buck a page, since it was on my memory stick! I needed 20 copies of a 16 page document—you do the math!

I gave up and did groceries with my mom. Wandering through the aisles confirmed in my mind the need to offer her a lift home. Her vision needed another day to heal before she hopped behind the wheel of a car. Once we finished all our errands, making alternate arrangements for the document, I headed to my mom’s.

On arrival, I helped bring in all the groceries, hooked up a digital TV converter, and completed a host of other little tasks. When I finally looked at the clock, I couldn’t believe it—the hours had simply slipped away. Yet it wasn’t hopeless. There were still a few free hours before the kids would come home. Perhaps, I would have a Mary Ann afternoon instead of a whole day—it would suffice. Just as I finished up and got ready to leave, the phone rang.

It seemed inevitable that it was for me. After exchanging pleasantries with Ken’s mom, she explained that some family was visiting from The Netherlands and they wanted to pop by for tea that afternoon. I groaned inwardly, did a mental walk-through of my house and agreed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a visit—I love my family! I just didn’t understand why it was so hard to have a little time for myself!

I raced home, dragging in several bags of groceries. Once inside I did a mad dash to tidy up, put away the groceries, tidy up some more. Then, with a few minutes to spare I headed to the laundry room to switch loads of laundry. I wanted to get my washed load out into the sunshine!

Entering the gloomy room, I flicked on the light and froze. I couldn’t believe my eyes: The once-full laundry tub—the one I’d added blue dye to that morning now sat drained. Navy-blue water dripped from the pipes beneath the basin creating a blue river on the cement floor running straight to my pile of white laundry. Yes, you heard correctly—impossibly I’d somehow managed to dye my whites BLUE!!!

Ignoring the knot in my stomach as time was of the essence, I disregarded the inky blue mess of clothes in the basin and scooped up the dripping blue mess that once was white laundry. Replacing the load in my washer, I liberally added a large amount of bleach in the process. Then running upstairs I continued my mad-clean-the house-dash hanging up one load and preparing the tea and cake, just in time for my guests arrival.

Their visit helped me forget my laundry tub woes for the moment. Then after they left I went to tend my soup. It needed some spicing-up! I hemmed and hawed then took out the salt grinder and held it over the soup. Instead of sprinkling in a little, the lid fell off and the entire contents of the salt-cellar plopped into the soup! I gasped and then whimpered in defeat: it was time to call the cavalry. On the other end of the phone Ken made commiserating noises and promised to pick up some KFC.

As I waited for Ken, a buzzer sounded in the basement and I went to examine my blue-tinted-white laundry. Toting the basket up the stairs I stepped out into the sunshine to hang up my laundry. During my peg-the-laundry-to-the-clothesline time of reflection, I staged a pity-party in my head. All I wanted was one day for Mary Ann—was that so hard?

Just then a thought stole into the back of my mind—those words were somehow familiar. Doesn’t God just want one day from me? One day for God. Is that so hard? I looked up at the sky and sighed. He really had me there.

Mary Ann, who is one of God’s creatures, is crabby because she can’t have a day of Mary Ann-ness. Yet God, the creator, who really merits the whole one day thing, can barely get an hour out of me. And the amazing thing is God wanted to share that day as a sort of gift to both of us. One day, so that I would actually slow down long enough to rest. One day, so that I would connect with him on a deeper level, grow my relationship with him, and if nothing else, worship him. Huh.

Well, that was the end of the “poor, poor me,” thing that I was running with. I finished hanging up the laundry, my mood a little lighter, ready to laugh at life’s little twists and turns. A good thing to, since the craziness wasn’t done. Soon after my fire alarm started blaring: I forgot about the bacon frying in my oven (it was supposed to go with the soup!). And as for that KFC? It came back to haunt me later on, and I spent the evening with a bucket close at hand. But by that time, my perspective had changed. God took a day I had set aside for myself and put me to work serving my loved ones. I learned once again that its better when I keep him at the centre of my life—everything runs a little more on key.


Summer Survival: Packing my Twelve-Year Old Off to Camp

Delving into the dresser of a twelve-year old boy...

Boys. There are all sorts of poems out there about what little boys are made of—I’ve got a whole new drawer full of ideas. Dirty laundry scattered on the floor, library books with their pages folded over, wet towels left to rot—need I go on?

It’s been, what? A month and a half since school let out? So a few days ago I was helping my twelve-year pack for camp. I’m one of those moms who pretty much expects him to figure these things out, but I went over the list with him the night before he was due to leave. Then I found them! Apples!

See, I’m also one of those moms who requires my kids to pack a healthy snack with their school lunch every day. Kennan usually takes an apple and like the amazing boy that he is, it never comes home with him. Or so I thought.

I know moms are not supposed to mention these things, but he needed eight underwear for camp and they were MIA. I knew that was impossible, since I’m also the one who also does the laundry around here, so I went on a search and rescue mission. Into the depths of his dresser…

The first thing I noticed was the scent of apples. It was a pleasant surprise—I surmised he must have found appley scented candles or something and shoved it in there. Not! There, in the front of his drawer, lay several apples. Like elderly women, they sat there, their skin perhaps a bit wrinkled, but dignified none the less. I scooped them up and turned to the boy for an explanation. He got a roguish twinkle in his eye and shrugged his shoulders and said, “I guess I just like the smell of apples, mom.”

I couldn’t help it, the corner of my mouth twitched before I could express the outrage that every mother should have. I settled for an eye roll and continued the search. The underwear, were eventually tracked down,still stuffed into another suitcase from a previous camping trip—I did mention he’s a twelve-year-old boy, right?

Now he’s been gone to camp for a few days. I walk past his room and it seems so empty. No wet towels rotting on the ground, no dirty clothes lying in a heap, no library books with the corners folded over. Even his bug cage is empty and his jack knives are gone—but when I walk into the room, I can still smell the scent of apples. It’ll linger until he gets home next week and I can hardly wait.


The Mouth of a Lion

Closing the mouth of a lion.

LORD, please shut my mouth!

I was sitting in church and praising the Lord in song when someone new slipped into the pew behind me. I didn’t notice him until he opened his mouth. Everyone within range winced at the flat tone. Yet with all the energy he could muster he belted out the tune. I cringed and surreptitiously tilted my head away from the auditory assault. And he, mouth wide, loud and clear—oblivious to the chaos created by his voice.

It made me think about myself. I would never be described as shy. I’m full of energy and if need be, I can come up with an opinion on just about anything. Like Daniel praying for the lions as a kid I’d pray, “Lord keep my mouth shut.” Unfortunately, it only worked some of the time. I’m not a kid anymore, but my mouth can still outrun my brain. On occasion I probably sound just as off-key as the guy behind me in church. I think I’m sounding good and I turn up the volume when really everyone around me is cringing and wishing they could plug their ears.

And yet, I wonder how God is taking it all in. Is he asking for bits of cotton? I don’t think so. Amazingly enough he loves me—when I’m the spark-plug and even when I’m all fizzled out, he listens.


Bathing Suits…the Scourge of Summer.

The bathing suit curse.

If I can’t be skinny…

It’s summer and I’m loving the gorgeous weather, but along with summer comes the stripping off of a few of those layers of clothing. Gone are the sweaters, long pants and winter coats. Out come the shorts and t-shirts, sundresses and…bathing suits. I saw a sign in a craft store a while ago, “LORD, IF I CAN’T BE SKINNY PLEASE MAKE ALL MY FRIENDS FAT!” This is the slogan that goes through every woman’s mind seconds before she exposes her bikini clad body to her friends. I don’t want all my friends to be fat…okay, occasionally the thought may flit through my mind, but in all seriousness all I’m hoping for is a little dignity. When you’re wearing a bathing suit and look in the mirror, do you like what you see?

This got me thinking—maybe my problem isn’t the extra rolls that seem to have appeared out of nowhere, maybe it’s my attitude. I’m all for good health, but the other day my mom looked at my youngest daughter and said, “When I was your age it was the middle of World War II.” I imagine a young girl in the middle of a war and I wonder what she saw when looking in a mirror. In my mother’s language there is a word for thin, “mager.” Translated it means slender, skimpy, skinny, meagre, or thin. In Canada when we say thin we think of a beautiful slender woman—the one I wish to see in my mirror. But in my mother’s day, if I said you’re ‘mager,’ you need to hear me whisper ugly between each word slender ugly skinny ugly skimpy ugly meagre ugly thin ugly. To this day my mother doesn’t see thin as a beautiful trait, “a little fat is more beautiful,” she says to me. When I went with friends to Guinea in Africa, I encountered the same thinking.

Don’t worry; I’m not anywhere close to being “mager,” but my culture tells me I should want to be. If you don’t believe me, just try finding a bathing suit that fits! However, maybe, just maybe, I need to change my own attitude. Instead of worrying about my weight I need to focus on my health. When I look in the mirror or stand on that scale, maybe I need to shrug my shoulders and be thankful! There is not a one-size-fits-all for beauty and when it comes right down to it, confidence is the most attractive thing I can ever wear.


New to the Neighbourhood

Our first ‘real’ church—the one that Ken was ordained in, was in the bustling little town of Wyoming, Ontario. We drove into town and the flat land was the first thing that struck me. To a girl who grew up in the Canadian Shield forests of eastern Ontario, the miles and miles of flat fields looked as barren as did the prairies to the first European immigrants. My heart longed for the cover of trees—with soft pine needles under foot and the wild sweet song of the chickadee that would hush under the green canopy. Instead, I stood looking across fields and fields of corn and wheat and I wondered if I could adjust to naked landscape.

One of the first neighbours I met was Miss Symington, a retired piano teacher. Her given name was Isabel, but despite her fluffy white hair and kindly smile, she possessed an old-fashioned sense of dignity and I couldn’t bring myself to call her anything but Miss Symington. Now shrunk to under five feet, her slight frame now like that of a girl, was usually clad in soft colourful track suits. Isabel’s home was small and beige; it was her colourful flower gardens that infused the property with warmth.

On that morning when I first spied my neighbour, the smell of fresh-cut grass was in the air and tiny insects hovered on a soft breeze as she carefully picked her way towards her garden. She stood at her gardens edge, and with a hoe that stood taller than she, ineffectually she hacked at the hard sun-dried soil. While watching my kids playing in the yard, my gaze kept sneaking into the other yard to watch her progress. I smiled to myself as I spied on her; the hoe seemed to be winning.

I’d no sooner had this gleeful thought when as if in slow motion, the hoe dropped and like a leaf gently flutters to the ground, she followed it down. For seconds I stood blinking at the scene across the yard and then when I realized she wasn’t getting up again I raced to her side. I kneeled in the grass beside her and up close soft colour stained her wrinkled cheeks; her pink bow-shaped mouth pursed ruefully at her ignominious position. With her watery blue eyes twinkling and she said, “I was wondering what I was going to do now.”  I knew right then I was going to like her; I was already beginning to feel at home.

When I was feeling lonely I would slip next door and she would serve tea in delicate hand-painted Royal Albert china and we’d talk. She’d feed my kids candy and marvel at their simple cotton shorts and t-shirts—wrinkling her brow as she remembered the itchy woollen underclothing she wore at their age; the layers and layers of clothing that stifled her as a child in the hot summers on her family farm.

In 1833, Miss Symington’s great-grandfather, Thomas, walked through the woods from Toronto, carrying only an axe and a few belongings, to be recorded among the first settlers of Lambton County. Her father Hugh, contracted pneumonia in the days before penicillin and died while she was still a child. Born at the turn of the century, Miss Symington was twelve when the Titanic sank, a teenager during the Great War, and still in her twenties when the stock market crash of ’29 began the Great Depression.

Isabel Symington lived through what I could only read of in books and I loved hear about her childhood. In the early 1900’s in a one room school house near Camlachie, Isabel recollected tipping her braided head as a rumble like distant thunder rolled through the air. The teacher recognized the sound and sent them outside for an impromptu field-trip. Standing on the rails of wooden fences that lined her school-yard Isabel craned her neck to catch her first glimpse of horse-less carriage. Slack-jawed, covering her eyes at the din, Isabel stood at the edge of that dirt road until the clanging, banging, dusty wonder drove out of ear-shot.

Miss Isabel Symington lived to see automobiles replace horses as the transportation of choice. From her little corner of the universe she witnessed history unfold and lived to see a new century dawn. I came to Wyoming longing for familiar surroundings and this tiny woman taught me that the world is constantly growing and changing—and that’s not all bad. What remains constant aren’t places or things we can touch, but the people we love and the God we serve. My life as a pastor’s wife has sent me across the country and back. And though I may enter a new community with trepidation I know that I will leave many as old friends—Miss Symington led the way.


Lilac benedictions

lilac Syringa vulgaris in bloom

Image via Wikipedia

I love lilacs. I know in close quarters the scent can be overpowering, but on the breeze of a spring day the perfume of lilacs congers up memories of playing hide and go seek on the squishy wet spring grass on my great-aunt and uncle’s farm. We’d snap off endless bouquets of the heady flower as offerings to my mom and fill every vase and jar we could find. So you can understand how distressed I was a few years ago when the lilac I planted only produced leaves.

Though my house was surrounded by beautiful properties, it sat on the market for six-months. I eyed the scruffy yard, not to mention the dated interior and decided I was up for the task. We moved in at the end of August and rolled up our sleeves and set to work. That fall I spent hours cleaning up the garden and yard. Almost immediately I decided to plant a lilac. I choose a small, but elegant looking shrub and planted it in an ideal location. When the snow flew we turned our efforts in doors, but when the buds appeared on the tree once again I headed outside. Our yard was a veritable jungle and I attacked it with variety of garden tools, trimming and culling as I went. Soon I began to eye my lilac. All I wanted was just one bloom. I’d check over its leafy branches all the time and still not one bud appeared. I was disappointed. Okay, so I don’t profess to have a green thumb, but I wanted more than leaves! I was thankful for the other pretty spring flowers that appeared in our gardens, but it was the lilac that I kept circling

 One day in late May my kids came running into the house, “Mom, you have to see this!” I looked up from what I was doing and followed my kids to the front yard, wondering what had their eyes glowing and feet dancing with delight. The corner of our property slopped down and a few trees blocked my view of the road. We circled around a tall blue spruce and they led me to the very edge of our lawn. There, by the road’s edge, sat a couple scruffy crooked trees that I’d thought were little more than weeds in need of culling. To my surprise at the end of the twisted grey branches lilacs bloomed. Hidden at the corner of my yard the Lord had worked a small miracle.

Since then the pretty lilac tree we purchased continues to produce beautiful lush green leaves while the gnarled tree that sits almost hidden at the corner of my lawn is bedecked with lilacs each and every spring. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to glean from this—perhaps that I’m just a really lousy gardener. Yet, I can still remember that first moment of discovery: wide eyes I did a little dance on the still damp grass. I can still feel the shot of joy to my heart. The joy that tells me my God loves me and blesses me at every turn.

Now it’s the end of May again and this morning I wandered to the edge of my lawn and before I could even see the twisted trunk of that spindly tree the scent of lilac tickled my nose. Walking to the tree I allowed the tiny blooms to brush my skin and with the soft scent on the air I close my eyes in the warm spring sunshine like to a benediction.

“Blossoms appear through all the land. 
       The time has come to sing…”  Solomon 2:12


Life In The Garden Of The Dead

At the very edge of a beautiful expanse of green stands the small white grave stone of my brother. Cornelis (Casey) Van Starkenburg, born May 9, 1955 died on a summer’s day in 1962 at the age of seven. He biked up and down his Oma’s driveway on an oversized tricycle, fell and hit his temple on a rock and by morning he was gone. The sunshine slips through the trees and diamonds of light filter onto the unremarkable tombstone below. As you enter the grounds a century of frost has tipped the rows of the grey stone markers this way and that. Names on old marble tombstones are faded; weathered by years of August heat, October sleet and April drizzle. As you walk through the cemetery large marble memorials of black and white mark family plots with individual engraved marble slats on the ground all around. Voices hush in the shade of trees planted more than a hundred years ago. To one side the trees are very young and the sunshine bright and out in the open are tidy new rows of reds and grey polished granite.

With the beautiful weather calling me out for a walk I found myself wandering in a lush green churchyard just down the street from my house. Not the choice of most, I know. These days many avoid wandering through cemeteries. The rows and rows of graves make us mindful of our own fleeting existence. Yet, the history engraved on stone and the memories that linger in the air make cemeteries so much more than final resting places. The stones speak of life and death, joy and sorrow in tenuous balance. In this garden of the dead a resonance of Eden whispers reminding me that one day I’ll walk with my brother, my father…my LORD! This is the hope I feel when I wander through faded grey marble and towering granite; made tangible in the word, “Brothers and sisters, we want you to know about those Christians who have died so you will not be sad, as others who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and that he rose again. So, because of him, God will raise with Jesus those who have died.” 1Thessalonians 4:13

“For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; ‘he will lead them to springs of living water.’ ‘And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

Revelation 7:17


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