As God’s fellow workers, then, we urge you not to receive God’s grace in vain. For He says: “In the time of favor I heard you, and in the day of salvation I helped you.” Behold, now is the time of favor; now is the day of salvation!

2 Corinthians 6:1–2

“My” Tom Jones was also a singer, though not famous to anyone other than our church family. He jumped into leading singing. One week, he approached my mom and asked if she knew a particular song. When she said she did not know it, he declared, “We’re going to learn it!” So they did. Every time I hear or sing the song, I think of him. Sometimes, we get so used to what we’re singing that we don’t pay attention to the words. When I read the words of this song, it’s a promise and a way of life. The song is “I Love the Lord.”

Tom Jones was diabetic and legally blind, yet he did not make excuses to avoid serving. In spite of his limitations, he created beautiful things through carpentry. Because he was legally blind, he worked from a pattern in his mind. He and my dad made an amazing cabinet (it’s called the Tom Jones cabinet) that now sits in my schoolroom. It’s held everything from toys and stuffed animals to school and craft supplies, batteries, and extension cords and even served as a pantry and bookshelf. It’s been in three states, eight houses, and two storage facilities. He also made my cradle, which is now overflowing with my daughter’s stuffed animals.

He didn’t let what he couldn’t do get in his way. You can wait forever for the perfect time, or you can take action.

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.

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.