Since the funerals of my grandparents, I haven’t pushed the kids to attend every service. However, there are a few I deem as “important,” not for the sake of how well we knew the individual, but for the sake of showing love to those left behind.

These lessons are not simple but necessary for navigating life. As the adage goes, “No one gets out of this life alive.” No matter the age of your children, be clear when talking about death. Saying “they passed away” or “they didn’t make it” is vague and confusing.

As a Christian, I do not believe that death is the end of the story. However, there is still finality. For our time on this side of eternity, death is permanent. We can no longer see, hear, talk with, or hug the one who has died. Yet we have hope. We can be sad that our loved one is gone, relieved that their suffering is over, and joyful that the story isn’t over. Each of the emotions we experience is okay. It is important to teach your children that they are allowed to feel all the things.

Some services are more difficult than others, just as some losses are more complicated than others. Know yourself and your child(ren) well enough to pick up on cues. Some children are tender-hearted and tearful, some become overwhelmed by the emotions and people in the room, and some may seem stoic and unmoved. Meet them where they are, talk openly and honestly, and give them the kind of space they need. As long as they are safe, I allow my children to go to a different room if necessary.

The last lesson is minding what you say to the grieving. It is enough to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” You don’t have to say anything else. Remember that Job’s friends were a great comfort to him until they spoke. Do share your memories of the person and how much you will miss them. Avoid asking questions that require the grieving person to make a decision. “Let me know if you need anything” is a nice sentiment, but in grief, a person may not know what they need. Offer something instead. “I’m going to bring a meal over on such and such a date, if that works for you.” You remove a burden but also leave it open.

After my friend’s mom died, we only had a week until ballet performance. I told her I would take care of the meal plan that week since we would be together anyway. She didn’t have to make any decisions; she only had to show up on time—a big enough challenge during grief!

Funerals are not fun, but you can experience joy even in sorrow. Grief is a process. Grief looks different from day to day. Grief comes in waves, some small and others like a tsunami. Some you wade through, some bury you, but eventually, you learn to surf.

No one knows when their lasts will happen, either their last day or the last day with a loved one. In the episode of Doctor Who called “Last Christmas,” dream Danny reminds Clara that every Christmas is the last one. We ought to make every moment count. The most extraordinary memories are often in the most ordinary moments. Preparing the food, sitting at the table, cleaning up, and exchanging gifts may seem like the least important parts of the festivities, but those are often the moments when we hear the most laughter, share the best stories, and give the most hugs.

I would say my grandmother loved Christmas, except the joy she had during the holidays was bigger than that. Grandmama loved her family and getting as many people together as possible. She enjoyed hunting for the perfect gifts and the best bargains. She diligently wrapped each gift with love and an immaculate bow. She had a weakness for Christmas candy (all candy really, but Christmas was her favorite).

This will be the third Christmas without her and the second without my grandfather. Those who have a great presence in life leave a great void when they are gone. We don’t know which Christmas, gathering, or ordinary day together will become a treasured memory. Cherish those you love. Make new memories. Take AND be in all the photos, no matter how self-conscious you might be. One day, only pictures and memories will be left. Make them count.

The loss of my last grandparent has had a great impact on me. I miss Granddaddy more than I thought possible. I did all I could to see him often and call him regularly in the eleven months between losing Grandmama and the week he died. I enjoyed talking to him, listening to his stories, and watching his face. His joy and zest for life radiated through him! He had “smile crinkles” and a twinkle in his eye, especially when he was making up an answer or teasing. Every picture (or at least all of my favorite ones) shows off his joy, humor, and love.

For God, Family, and Country

I wrote before that my grandfather was a diligent student, especially of the Bible. My grandfather loved the Word of God. Scripture was his guidebook for life. He started every day with an open Bible and prayer. He took time to talk to anyone and answer questions. He had a way of gently teaching the truth that conveyed God’s love without condoning wrongdoing.

He loved and provided for his family. He worked hard and paid for all four of his children to attend college without debt. (He only paid for their first degree). Even when he traveled for work, his priority was to be home every night with his family. He never missed a worship service if he could help it. Even when my grandparents vacationed around the world, they would find a local congregation. I found a huge collection of church bulletins and tracts from different places they visited.

My grandfather was a patriot, loyal to the American Constitution. When Peter was on active duty, Grandmama made yellow ribbons, which Granddaddy faithfully put up through every deployment. He wore an American flag on his lapel, but not just as an ornament. He was a patriot who prayed for the leaders of the country (even when he didn’t like them or their values). These yellow ribbons meant so much to me during the many months that Peter was away, but not nearly as much as the comfort provided by my family.

Work and Play

Granddaddy retired when he turned 80. One of the last big trips my grandparents were able to take was visiting us in Germany. I treasure so much about that visit, even though we didn’t do a lot of sightseeing, because I was able to share my life—the ordinary everyday moments—with these amazing people.

Along with the many Bibles, commentaries, and religious books in his collection, he also had several of Dale Carnegie’s courses. He would listen to courses (on tape) during his traveling salesman days. He completed nearly all of Sunset’s Bible Courses and constantly strove to do better in all areas of his life.

His first and most important job was in service of the church. He retired from work, but he never retired from serving the Lord. He worked for the Lord every day of his life. Some days looked different than others. My grandparents held Bible studies, hosted small groups, and visited the sick and shut-ins. When my grandmother’s health declined, my grandfather’s service shifted to care for the love of his life. He worked for the Lord in everything he did.

Love without Limits

My grandparents married in 1949. When she died, they’d been married seventy-two and a half years. There were challenges in those times, but they stuck together, as long as life allowed. Just as Elisha walked with Elijah until God took him, my grandfather walked with my grandmother. Losing his lifelong companion was devastating. They’d scarcely been a day without one another since they were 16 years old. They took care of each other, supported each other, and really did life together! Their example means so much to me, especially now, though I miss them terribly.

As Christians, our love does not end in death. We have hope beyond this life. The day before he died, he repeated this part of Revelation 19:1, “Hallelujah! Salvation and glory and power belong to our God!” He knew God and was ready to go. He walked with God in this life and into the next, never alone, though certainly lonely in the last year of his life. He was the last of his siblings and had outlived many of his oldest friends.

His favorite psalm was Psalm 133. He had these three verses committed to memory. He strove and prayed for unity in his family, church, and the world. He encouraged others to do the same.

Lesson 1: Be Present

My grandmother was present for every major milestone in my life. My baptism, my high school, college, and grad school graduations, my wedding, and the birth of my firstborn. She told me that my babies were really hers, but she would let me raise them. I think she probably said this to all her grandkids and even her own children. She let me know that I was doing an amazing job, and these words always came at the right time.

Lesson 2: Search the Scriptures

My grandmother did not “grow up in the church.” At some point, she went to VBS and was given a little Bible. She searched the Scriptures and went to every congregation in town seeking the Truth. She knew what the Bible said, but every place she went, she knew something was missing. She met my grandfather when they were sixteen. She was dating his friend at the time, but he decided that wouldn’t do. When they began dating, she went to church with him and his family and finally found that missing piece.

One Wednesday night, my grandfather had to work, but my grandmother went to services and was baptized for the forgiveness of sins. She didn’t do this for him or his parents—her only audience was the Creator and Savior. She lived her faith every day of her life. She continued to read and study her Bible. She taught her children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren through both words and actions.

Lesson 3: Be Hospitable

My grandmother could crochet, cross-stitch, and sew. She made numerous baby afghans and quilts. One of her cross-stitch projects was a parliament of owls with the caption, “There’s always room for one more.” At the time, there were seven grandchildren, so the picture has two big owls and seven various-sized smaller ones. About a year and a half after hanging it, two more grandkids had been added.

This sentiment didn’t only apply to grandkids, though. Everyone was welcome at my grandmother’s house. On more than one occasion, my dad’s brothers and sister would come to family events. My uncle’s mother spent several holidays with us after she moved in with my aunt and uncle due to Alzheimer’s. All our friends growing up were welcome. She started this with her own children, who often brought home “extras” or strays for the holidays. She taught hospitality by living it.

Lesson 4: Be Diligent in Your Faith

We never had to wonder what my grandmother thought about anything. She shared her pride as well as disappointment. She encouraged and supported us and prayed for us daily.

My grandmother knew hardship. Her family was poor, and she remembered times when food was scarce. She knew how to fend for herself and do what needed to be done without being asked. She made a choice to walk with Christ and didn’t look back. She looked for ways to reach up to God for answers and then reached out to others with all she could offer.

Lesson 5: Family Matters

During Peter’s first deployment, we lived in Colorado Springs. I was pregnant with Dietrich, and we decided I should stay with my parents for the last trimester. A lot of things happened during that time, the biggest of which was that my dad was diagnosed with and treated for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma (now in full remission).

My grandmother came for his first treatment and at least one other to stay with me, “just in case.” She was there when my baby boy was born. She rode back to Colorado Springs with me when Dietrich was three months old and flew back home, just so I wouldn’t have to make the trip alone. She also came to the funerals of my “other grandparents” to show her love and support for my dad. When someone married into the family, she completely adopted them as her own.

Lesson 6: Be Spontaneous

My grandparents took many trips over the years; sometimes they would just get in the car and go. During the summers of my college years and while I went to graduate school, I lived with my grandparents and worked at my grandfather’s company. One of those years, I attended a quilt class with her. Each month, we made a new block, and by the end of the year, we had a quilt. I made all the blocks, and she finished the quilt.

She surprised me with both a visit and the finished quilt on my birthday in 2011. The last “surprise” visit was in April 2016, before her back surgery, which didn’t go as smoothly as planned.

Lesson 7: Keep Working until You Are Not Able

After her back surgery (and subsequent surgeries to fix what didn’t go right), she still worked on her quilts and scrapbooks, though it became a little less at a time. She finished all the grandkids’ books and was working through the great-grands when she couldn’t do anymore, sometime last year.

When I say scrapbooking, I don’t mean putting pictures in an album with a few names and dates. Our lives and family history are thoroughly documented in these books. (I have five.) She took great care to know what was going on in our lives, showed interest in our activities, and knew our friends’ names. She loved our friends because we did. She offered wisdom from the Bible, insight from experience, and unwavering support. Her prayers never faltered. Even when she was in great pain, she held on to her Hope.

I am deeply sad because Grandmama’s presence in my life was so big. I am immeasurably grateful for the many years and memories and that my children knew her so well. I am angry that the events of 2020 stole valuable time from us. I am relieved that she is free from pain and suffering. Yet more than all those feelings, I am overwhelmed by the example of God’s love that she poured out every day of her life. Her legacy is one that clings to Hope, always reaching up to the Father and out to His people.

Years later, while living in Colorado Springs, our preacher called us to “man the lifeboats!” He referenced the hymn, Let the Lower Lights Be Burning and talked about how Christians are a beacon of hope for the lost. The illustration stuck with me.

Over the years, through seasons of loss, transition, uncertainty, and change, I’ve learned more about what it means to be a consistent light to others.

Some days, I keep others from being pulled under the waves. On other days, someone throws me a life preserver and moves me to safer waters.

One of the hardest seasons of my life taught me even more about the importance of lifeboats.

In Exodus 17, we read of battle. While Moses kept his arms raised, Israel prevailed. If his arms fell, the Israelites also “drooped.” Aaron and Hur each took an arm and held them steady. I watched that picture come to life as people held up those who were grieving. Others held up the people doing the holding. Sometimes we man the lifeboats. Sometimes we are the ones who need to be pulled aboard.

As we go, we hope to get as many people into the lifeboats as we can. We pray that we are a light to those grasping in darkness. We strive to make waves instead of ripples in the lives we touch. We want to make Heaven crowded.

During the spring of 2020, canceled events gave me time to reconnect with contacts from years of craft shows and vendor events. As I worked through the names, the events themselves brought back memories.

In November 2015, I met a beautiful, smiling 13-year-old Aranza. She greeted me like we’d known each other always. She laughed with me and enjoyed my sense of humor. We joked and shared sarcasm and puns. She trained me in doing shows, and at 13, she amazed me. I think I watched her more than I did anything that day. At 13 years old, her mama could trust her to run a booth—from greeting customers, to demonstrating, to counting correct change! From that day on, when she saw me, she asked about my business—not in a casual way, but in the way someone asks when they know what it takes and they really want to know how you’re doing.

In February of 2017, I did a big show with Aranza and her mother, who had become one of my closest friends. By this time, I viewed Aranza as something like a niece. We continued our banter and enjoyed each other’s company during this event. I again watched as she amazed the customers, even making an impression on a young girl, probably about nine, who said, “I want to do this!” I made some great contacts through this event.

As I entered my contacts from 2017 into my customer service manager, I noticed something that stopped me.

Aranza’s handwriting.

The unexpected wave crushed me. A life lived to the fullest, just shy of 17 years, cut short by the actions of another. A life that touched so many others—she made waves instead of ripples.

In that moment, my grief was less about what happened, more about missing her presence, but most about Homesickness.

Since August 8, I’ve said Aranza’s fingerprints are in the way I run my business. Here, I could actually see the mark she left behind.

Grief has a way of appearing in places we don’t expect—in an old contact list, familiar handwriting, or a memory tucked into an ordinary task.

As a Believer, I have a confident expectation of being reunited with my loved ones.

In the meantime, fingerprints are everywhere.

A few days later, “making ripples” would become more than an illustration.

On August 7, we started school and began a new routine. My video that night, entitled “Eat the Frog,” was about doing things you don’t want to do. While recording, I missed a call from my best friend. Usually, we message each other or text, so I initially thought that she called unintentionally.

Until she left a voicemail.

As I listened to her short message, I knew it would never leave me, and that I would never forget the sound of her voice.

“The girls have been in an accident!”

I don’t know how I stayed standing. I don’t know how I found the ability to stay calm enough to return her call. What I know is that moment and the hours that followed changed our lives.

I began praying as soon as I played the voicemail. I kept vigil through the night, unable to sleep, waiting for news. In three hours, my friend lost two of her three daughters.

I dreaded telling my children the next morning. My son had spent part of that day at the youth rally with them. My daughter adored them. I loved them, and could only love them more if they were my own.

In the following days, I witnessed an outpouring of love for my friend and her family from all corners of the earth. Ella and Aranza touched many lives in their daily activities. They never met a stranger. They befriended the friendless, listened to the lonely, and included the outcast. No one had to sit alone at the lunch table if Ella or Aranza was present.

As I shared information, I remembered my conversation with my son about ripples. At that moment, I said:

“These girls didn’t make ripples. They made waves.”

Thousands of lives were touched because of these young ladies.

Everything we know can change in an instant. We don’t always realize the impact we have on other people. Ella and Aranza showed how seemingly small acts of love and kindness can reach farther than we could ever know.

Making waves doesn’t always begin with something big. Sometimes, it begins by making sure no one sits alone.

When I was five years old, my father preached a sermon in which he talked about his mother dying. Well, this was news to me, as I’d just seen my grandparents both alive and well not too long before. My mother realized very quickly that I was not only paying attention but also very upset, thinking Grandma was dead. She explained that my dad’s mother died when he was seven years old and that Grandpa remarried, so I had two Grandmas. My parents did not keep this information from us; this is simply the age when the information “clicked” in my brain. Though I didn’t know that first Grandma, I lost her that day.

Fast forward 17 years to 2002. I had just graduated from college and had a couple of weeks left in on-campus housing before moving into my new apartment. I received a call that my Grandpa had passed away. He had been in the hospital with complications after heart surgery, and the prognosis had gone back and forth, but the loss was still unexpected.

My college minister and his wife helped me move the rest of my belongings into my new apartment so I could be cleared with housing. My flight home was my first post-9/11 flight. With a one-way ticket and only a small carry-on, I became a red flag for additional screening. The screener put my toiletry bag back into the larger bag upside down, which meant my contact case was upside down, too. This still aggravates me.

I remember walking down the steps toward the area where people met arriving passengers and seeing my dad. We cried as we embraced. So many people came to the memorial service to honor a gospel preacher of just over 50 years. I learned a lot about Grandpa that day, which made the loss more complicated.

Yesterday, my Grandma died. She’s been unwell for a while. Her suffering is finally over. Like Grandpa, she spent a lifetime in the Lord’s service, teaching Bible classes, helping with church secretarial tasks, typing for my grandfather, leading Ladies’ Bible studies, and generally serving alongside her husband as a preacher’s wife.

Here is what my own father wrote about his mother for his church bulletin:

On February 14, 1960, fifty-five years ago, a Christian woman named Mary became my second mother. When she married my dad she knew the job that lay ahead. She became “instant mama” to three sons: a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, and a five-month-old. Many women would have run from such a task, but my mother took on the challenge and met it well. She encouraged me to become a preacher, provided a listening ear, and gave me the little sister I wanted. My first memory of hearing the phrase “treated like a stepchild” was as a young adult. I didn’t comprehend what it meant. Technically I was a stepson, but I never felt like one. Yesterday mother went home to be with the Lord. Although mom was eighty-four years old, for her children and grandchildren her death was still too early. I’m thankful to God for two wonderful mothers: the one who bore me and the one who finished molding me.

Grandpa asked me during many visits when I was going to get married and start having great-grandbabies. He died five years before I married and six years before his first great-grandbaby was born. I am so glad that my Grandma lived long enough to meet both of my babies in person.

I didn’t take any pictures of our last visit because she didn’t look like herself, and I wanted to remember her as she is in these pictures. Our visits were not as often as I would have preferred, but distance, her poor health, and my son’s severe allergy to cats all acted as barriers.

I made efforts to call regularly, even while living in Germany. I set an alarm on my phone with Acappella’s “I’m Gonna Keep on Workin’ ’Til He Comes” so I would remember to call at a good time despite the time difference. The song fits her personality. She taught Ladies’ Bible Study until she felt unable to give it her best effort and continued participating until worsening health made even that impossible.

In all of my phone calls with her, she told me she was proud of me, that I am a good mom, and that she loved me. Just as my dad never felt like he wasn’t really her son, I’ve never felt like less than her granddaughter.

This week, we prepare for a family reunion of sorts as we gather to say an earthly goodbye to Grandma.

I am so glad to be a Christian, to have hope beyond this life, and to know that the end of Grandma’s suffering on this earth is the beginning of a beautiful, joy-filled, pain-free eternity.

My grief is my own, no one else’s. It is not right or wrong, nor should anyone judge me for the way I am doing it. My loss, even if we have similar experiences, is not your loss. If you don’t have a similar experience, you cannot definitively say what you would think, do, or feel in my place.

On October 26, after a few days of spotting and one terrible night of cramping, we went to the ER. After several hours, blood work, and two ultrasounds, we were informed that I was in the middle of a miscarriage. What should have been the end of my first trimester became the end of many hopes, dreams, and expectations.

Due to our move and insurance rules, this was the first doctor visit I had. I often wondered if everything was okay. I even dreamed about having a miscarriage about a week before it happened. Mentally, I began preparing myself for the bad news when the spotting started.

I prayed for the child to be okay, but that if the worst were to happen, God would show us how to use the experience for His glory (bargaining). I read lots of information online and talked to people who said what I was experiencing was “normal,” and I began to believe it (denial).

When the doctor gave us the news, it was a confirmation of all my fears, yet I didn’t feel overwhelmed with any particular emotion. Perhaps I was in a bit of shock. I experience my anger in extreme irritability, which I take out most on my three-year-old, leaving me plagued with guilt. My depression is not felt so much in “sadness” as in physical symptoms: fatigue, lack of motivation, and a general absence of joy. I know that the miscarriage is not my fault, but if I have too much time to think, many “what ifs” go through my head.

The worst part of the experience for me was when the “product” (as the doctors call it) passed the next day. I am grateful we were still in temporary housing so that I wouldn’t have to be reminded of that experience every time I went in or near the bathroom.

Since I believe that life begins at conception, I also believe that my child—not “product”—had a soul, a soul unblemished, untainted, and free from even witnessing the mess of the world.

My husband and I found ourselves thinking about how different this loss might have felt at another stage of pregnancy or after birth. We had not felt the baby move, known the gender, or held our child in our arms. That was one of the ways we tried to make sense of our own grief. We also know, beyond any doubt, that our perfect soul is waiting for us until the final Day of Judgment, when we will be reunited and share in all the joys of heaven.

So we grieve. We are sad, but this isn’t the end of the story. It’s part of the messy middle.

Here on earth, we have to move forward and still be the best parents we can be to our son. We hope to be blessed with another in the future, but we also trust that God’s plan is the best, and He reveals things in His time.

A friend said, “kinda makes heaven seem more real, knowing that loved ones are waiting for us.”

More real, but still so far away.

I would add, “kinda makes the work we have left to do on earth seem more urgent.”

Grief is part of that work. I cannot rush through it or measure it against someone else’s. I can only walk through my own messy middle, trusting God with the parts of the story I cannot yet see.