My Cathedral

When I was in my early teens, my family took a road trip that led us along the south shore of Lake Superior. Our destination was Bayfield, but we stopped in the village of Cornucopia. The name of this town resonated with the aspiring writer in me, and I wandered away from my family to explore. The Lake was calm that day and slapped lazily against the fishing boats docked at the weather-worn pier. The air smelled vaguely of fish. Seagulls flew overhead and called to each other in off-key squawks. Tall grass scratched my bare legs as I followed the narrow path to the beach, where the full expanse of the Lake lay before me, an ocean of jewels catching the noontime sun. And I stood there, statue-still, as if any movement would destroy the moment when all that existed in my world were me and the Lake. The sights and smells and sounds from that day became so fixed in my mind that when we returned to the same place decades later, I knew exactly where I was.

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen the Lake; we’d been to Duluth a few times and had driven along the northern shore, through Canada to Sault Ste. Marie. There’s a picture of me sitting on a ledge somewhere near the Soo Locks, looking both thrilled and terrified by the cold, deep water I was determined not to fall into and by the size of the freighters moving through. On that same trip I got seasick on the ferry to Mackinac Island and was allowed the rare treat of a bottle of root beer when we finally reached the shore, which, to the 10-year-old me, was probably the highlight of the experience. And yet, I still remember.

Years later, Kevin and I started making annual trips up to the North Shore to camp and enjoy some quiet time together. I looked forward to those trips for months, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be than sitting on a sunbaked boulder next to the Lake. I wasn’t able articulate the feeling I got whenever I was near the Lake, except that when it was time for us to leave, I was homesick for weeks afterward. A year after my mother died, it was sitting on a wooden swing within earshot of Lake Superior’s waves when I was finally able to compose the complete record of her death.

And now the Lake is a character in my story. I have only to look out my office window to see her in the distance or walk a few blocks to see her up close. I watch her, study her, try to understand her and her ever-changing personalities and moods. She’s rarely predictable, and that’s one thing I love the most about her.  

Sometimes, the wind rattles the rigging of the sailboats docked in the marina, producing a haunting clang, clang, clang, and the Lake hurls herself against the old coal dock, throwing up cold sheets of water that sting my face if I get too close. I’m drawn to her when she’s angry, fascinated by her raw strength. She could eat me alive—she has taken many down with her. And so I keep my distance.

When the sun is shining and a steady breeze stirs the trees, waves skip across the boulders that line the lakeshore in some places, sending a playful, sparkly splash into the air. If the weather is warm, I take off my shoes and put my feet in the sand at the beach, just at the edge of the water line. I close my eyes and feel the waves wash over my toes and swirl around my ankles, leaving behind a trail of bubbles and foam.

At times she’s conflicted, and the waves can’t seem to find their rhythm. She’s restless, pacing this way and that among the rocks and islands and docks, at the whim of the wind and season. I watch and feel unsettled; she is not the only one with decisions to make.

And then she rests—almost completely still but for a gentle gurgling as water meets rock. Her surface reflects the shimmering reds and purples of the setting sun, and I sit in the sand, knees to my chest, watching and waiting for the moonlight.

It’s through this Lake, this magnificent, beautiful cathedral, that my Creator speaks a language I can understand. It mirrors His power and mercy and peace. It’s where He energizes and rejuvenates me and calms my spirit. Perhaps King David knew the feeling when he spoke in his most famous psalm of being lead beside the still water and being given restoration for his soul. There is no other place I know that feels the same. It’s where I can think and create and, sometimes, just breathe.

When people ask me why we moved to Washburn, I might tell them about our desire to own a piece of land and have a little farm and about how, over a period of a few years and regular visits, we started to fall in love with the community. This
is absolutely true. But the thing that drew us to this area in the first place—the thing at the heart of our search for the perfect place to settle down for the long haul and build a life—is, quite simply, the Lake. When I tell people this, people who live here, they get a light in their eyes because they know exactly what I mean. She is, after all, part of their stories too.

Confusing the Postmaster

The postmaster of the city of Washburn, according to Kevin, is very nice and helpful. Though he does not like it if people with PO boxes go for days and days without collecting their mail. Kevin found this out last week when he went to the post office to get a PO box for us because, well, we’ve moved again, and our new place does not have a mailbox in the yard.

So we’re forwarding mail from our old address in MN to our first address in Ashland and then to our second address in Washburn (before we realized we didn’t have a mailbox) and now to our PO box. I feel like I should bake cookies or crochet wool hats or something for the fine postal employees of this part of the world who have to sort through all our address changes.

Our residence for the next year or so.

In retrospect, everything has worked out exactly as it should, though the road has at times resembled a rollercoaster…but only one of those little rollercoasters at a county fair.

When we purchased our land outside of Washburn more than two and a half years ago, we decided that when my stepson graduated from high school, we would move north. And we did. We listed our house in MN for sale on July 2 and accepted an offer on July 3, with a closing date of August 14.

We started searching Craigslist and the classifieds for rental homes in the area of our land. We made several trips up to look at different places, but because the rental market is so tight, several other wanted the same houses. It became much like looking for a job, “selling” ourselves as the perfect tenants (because, duh, who wouldn’t want us to rent their house?). As August 14 grew closer, we entertained the idea of putting our stuff in storage and camping if we needed to. I felt better knowing we at least had a plan!

Finally, two weeks before closing and one week before we were planning to move our stuff out of our MN house, two opportunities arose on the same day. It was a gamble, as both places were 5+ miles from the nearest town about a half an hour from our land, and both were way bigger than we needed. One looked really nice, but we’d have to move out in the spring, potentially before our house was built. The other seemed fine and was a month-to-month lease. We went with the latter.

A few days after officially moving in, we wondered if we made the wrong choice for a heap of reasons I won’t dwell on, but we decided we could make it work. Our motto became “It’s only temporary.” What we really wanted, though, was a hard-to-find rental house in Washburn, in town and yet close to our land.

Lo and behold, on the morning we were going to be driving to MN for a funeral and then staying the rest of the week, I saw an ad in the classifieds for a house in Washburn. We called and went to look at it that afternoon on our way out of town, deemed it “perfect,” and the next day it was ours. We put in our notice for the first rental and started moving our stuff. We finished the move less than a week ago, and now we’re now living only a few minutes from our land and six blocks from Lake Superior in a town we fall more in love with every day and in a house that, despite the fact that none of the cupboards close completely and very few of the surfaces are actually level, is exactly what we need.

I've had very little opportunity to reflect on all that's happened, but as I watch the pieces fall into place, after blinking quickly and shaking my head a little wondering "Did that really happen?," I'm just so...thankful. Many times Kev and I have been speechless, only able to speak the words, "Wow! Thank you, Lord!"

I went to the library last week (which is less than a block away) and was told that once the librarians get to know me, I won’t need to show my card. Kevin was out on our land last Saturday and met a couple who live down the road…who we found out on Sunday also go to the church we’ve been attending. One of our neighbors near the house we’re renting brought us a jar or homemade jam.

Oh, and we're very diligent about getting our mail every day (or so).

We're home!

Mimi is happy in our new home too!

A Dream Unfolds

I’ve had moments in my life of such extreme positive emotion that I can’t think or speak or really do much more than stand there with a big stupid grin on my face, eyes wide, heart racing, stomach tumbling.

These moments are relatively rare, and often they catch me off guard. My wedding day was one, for obvious reasons, but then there was the time Kev and I hiked out to a waterfall in upstate New York in the prime of autumn, and I could feel a tremendous awe for the beauty around me welling up from my toes to my throat, prompting me to throw armfuls of red and gold leaves in the air and run under them, my face turned toward the sun. Ah, the very memory gives me goose bumps.

And then there was the time just this past May when I first stepped foot on our land up north. We saw the land in November, when it was covered with brush and snow, and we purchased it in January. All winter we used the satellite image of our 9-acre square only a few miles from Lake Superior to imagine our someday homestead and its gardens, greenhouses, fruit trees, chickens, and bees, our dream of self-sufficient living nearer than it had ever been—Kevin with his hands in the dirt, lovingly growing food for our family, our neighbors, and, someday, or community; me getting to know the chickens, preserving the harvest for the winter, and sneaking off to the Big Lake to bask in its sheer magnificence and work on my novel.

 Waiting for the snow to melt from this year’s ridiculously long winter was a test of patience, and when May finally rolled around, I was about ready to burst. We drove the 3.5 hours north on a sunny Friday, and when we pulled up to our parcel, my shaky legs tripped over themselves getting out of the car. And then I was there, standing, by the grace of God, on our future, feeling for a moment like an intruder until reality sank in: This is ours! 



Our little bit of earth (May 2013)

I wanted to run and sing with my hands in the air, turn cartwheels, and spin around until I was panting and dizzy, and I might have actually done a few of these things, but I’ll never tell! Crying and laughing and feeling strongly compelled to get down on my knees and kiss the ground were it not all wet and muddy, I believed at that moment that anything is possible. I could see everything we’d talked about and planned and prayed for starting to unfold in front of me—hard work, simple pleasures, and good, clean living embodied in one little piece of earth.  Feeling like I was standing under a single beam of sunshine all my own, gratitude, humility, and hope surged through me.

I wish I could have bottled up those feelings for a discouraging day, as attaining a goal is never simple. But I have other methods for dealing with obstacles: I just close my eyes and imagine myself on our land five years from now. I smell the lilacs. I hear the laundry flapping on the clothesline. I feel the spring breeze ruffle my hair. And I know I’m where I belong.



Lake Superior--beach near our land (taken last September)

A View Without Fear

My family likes to joke that whenever I plan a vacation it somehow involves waterfalls and lighthouses, and I’ve got to admit it’s true. Lighthouses—well, anyone who knows me knows that I think lighthouses are super cool, so if there happens to be a lighthouse somewhere near our vacation destination, it’s at least worth a photo op.

Waterfalls, on the other hand, fascinate and frighten me at the same time. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to them. In our numerous trips to the North Shore of Minnesota and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, we’ve hiked out to a fair share of waterfalls. Most of the waterfalls we’ve viewed are in state parks, where the hiking trails are usually well groomed, and if you stick to the trails and heed the strongly worded DANGER signs, there’s very little possibility that you’ll go tumbling down a deep gorge, break your neck, and drown in front of a bunch of horrified onlookers.

A grim picture, yes? It’s what goes through my mind every time we venture out to one of these powerful displays of nature. I know it’s silly. Kev and I and the kids make it a practice to stick to the trails and use extreme caution around steep cliffs and churning water. But what if a foot slips? What if we lose our balance? What if…

A couple of weeks ago, Kev and I were up visiting our newly acquired land on the Bayfield peninsula and decided to hike out to Houghton Falls. Most of what I’d read about the falls suggested they are relatively small and gradual as far as falls grow, so I figured it would be a fear-free hike. The hike-at-your-own-risk sign at the trail head put an end to my optimism.

The hike started out in the woods, and as we approached the river, the sloping, tree-studded walls down the gorge did not hold the danger of a sheer drop off (the trees could easily break my fall), so I treaded cautiously down the trail. We followed the gorge until it felt like we were in some sort of hidden, moss-covered cave, almost a fairyland with several small step-like falls, and as long as I stayed on the far side of the trail away from the edge of the gorge, it was a perfectly lovely view. As we progressed down the river, the characteristic roar of the water grew louder and louder, and the drop off to the gorge grew more and more pronounced. Once we approached the main falls, the trail split—one fork followed the edge of the gorge, and one fork went through the woods several feet back from the gorge. I followed the trail into the woods and then stood rooted to my spot, craning my neck to get a view over the edge of the gorge. I caught a glimpse of the top of the waterfall, and that was good enough.

Kev, however, followed the fork that lead along the edge of the gorge and started to take pictures.

“Uh, Kevin,” I called from my safe spot in the woods. “Aren’t you too close? Shouldn’t you come back now?

“Aren’t you going to come and look?” he yelled back.

“I saw it!"

He shrugged and started to whistle. I decided I couldn’t watch and started back down the trail, listening for his whistle to be sure he hadn’t plummeted into the water below.

When Kevin caught up with me, he asked me why I didn’t want to look. “That was so cool! You missed the best part,” he said.

I shrugged sheepishly. “It was too dangerous. There was no guardrail.”

“Keri, I stayed on the trail and my footing was always secure,” he said gently. “I was never in any danger.”

As we hiked back to the car, I contemplated my fear. Staying far back from the edge may have made me feel safe from the danger of death by waterfall I had concocted in my head, but I missed out on the view, which was the entire purpose of our hike.

Fear is tricky like that. Many times I’ve allowed it—yes, it is a choice—to squelch my enthusiasm and nab my joy. Since my mom’s illness and death almost two years ago, the reality that no one is immune from tragedy has left me skittish and open to fear’s cunning. Bad things don’t just happen to people on the news; therefore, I always need to expect the worst—this is what I’ve let fear hoodwink me into believing. Even when I’m handed incredible blessings, I find myself looking over my shoulder wondering if they’re going to suddenly vanish. Talk about missing out on the view! This is no way to live.

I heard it said once that safety and security are not found in the absence of danger; they’re found in the presence of God. I love this! It would be an interesting study to go through the Bible and count how many times God’s people are told not to be afraid, and for good reason. There is, after all, no place to find firmer footing than in the arms of our sovereign Lord. Absolutely nothing is out of his reach.

As waterfall season approaches, I will, of course, stick to the trails, as all good waterfall viewers should, but my prayer these days is for God to vanquish the demon of fear completely from my life and help me enjoy every view I encounter to its fullest, even if doing so means stepping a little bit closer to the edge.

What You Look At Is What You See

My mom didn’t have the best singing voice—at least I never thought so. She once told me that she only got into the high school glee club because the director felt sorry for her. She sang on pitch and could carry a tune well enough, but her voice had harshness to it, especially when she sang out of range. I’m ashamed to say that as a teenager I was embarrassed to sit next to her in church because she sang so loudly and her voice did not blend well with the others. I was certain people were staring at us.

No hymn or praise song that left my mom’s lips was ever lacking in heart, though. Maybe that’s what was embarrassing to the teenage me—instead of just accepting the fact that she wasn’t gifted with a beautiful voice and singing her praises quietly, she sang her praises like she meant them…because she did.

I still have a lot to learn from my mother.

So often I use my perceived lack of gifts to sit life out. The new recipes I try never seem to turn out, so we’ll just have spaghetti again. I’m lousy at socializing with people I don’t know well, so let’s just skip the party. My pictures never turn out right, so I’m going to leave the camera at home. I don’t know as much about the new project at work as so-and-so does, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut at meetings.

A wise friend once said, “What you look at is what you see.” My mom actually had this written in her Bible. (She had the same wise friend.) If I look at what’s lacking, I’ll see what’s lacking and it will, nine times out of ten, stop me from moving forward. If I look at what’s there in abundance…well, let me illustrate:

I’m blessed to have a husband and stepkids who graciously eat everything I cook and actually look forward to my “experiments.”

Wow, how nice to get invited to a party! What a great chance for me to be brave and step outside my comfort zone and make new friends.

The great thing about a digital camera is that you can take hundreds of shots until you get the right one!

It’s such a simple concept but so powerful too: It makes all the difference where we focus our attention. Fear can’t win when I’m looking at courage. Despair can’t win when I’m looking at hope. Self-pity can’t win when I’m looking at thanksgiving.


My mom at the front of the VBS parade, singing praises.

When my mom looked at herself sitting in the pew at church with a hymnal in her hand or walking through the neighborhood at the head of the VBS parade or driving in the car listening to her favorite Christian music CD, she saw a desire to praise the One she loved more than anyone else in the world, not a lack of singing talent (or a silly, embarrassed teenage daughter). And that made all the difference to her.

What I look at is a choice, and I pray I will choose wisely; I want to see myself not as lacking in gifts but as swimming in opportunities to be all God wants me to be. And that is an exciting view!      

Waiting for Morning

On a recent whim, I bought the entire Chronicles of Narnia collection in one volume from a thrift store. I then proceeded to read it. Actually, I stayed up way too late for too many nights and devoured it. I’d seen the three Narnia movies, but I hadn’t had my nose in any of the novels since my third-grade teacher read a few of them aloud in class, so many of them were completely new to me.

As I finished one novel and started the next, I felt a little sad each time because at the end of each novel, with the exception of The Horse and His Boy, the children from our world who are brought to Narnia have to leave. After participating in a great adventure, making new friends, growing in wisdom and understanding about themselves and the world around them, and walking side by side with Aslan the lion, the children have to say good-bye to Narnia and take up their ordinary lives again. The children actually handle this reality pretty well; I, on the other hand, felt a heaviness on me each time it happened and was tempted to chuck the whole book in the trash.

It’s like the feeling I get when I have to leave what my mother used to call a “mountaintop experience”—an empty sort of ache that comes from the realization that once a moment has passed you can never get it back again. I remember back in college when I volunteered as a camp counselor for a week each summer, after I went back home I’d write mournful poetry in my journal and lament the fact that all I had left of my week were memories and a few photos. Leaving China after living and working there for two years caused a similar ache that lasted for months and still pops up occasionally because I knew I would likely never see again this side of heaven many of the people I’d come to love. I feel an ache even now when we have to come back to the city after spending time up in northern Wisconsin near Lake Superior, a place where I feel more at peace than anywhere else on this earth. Just a few weekends ago I got choked up when I had to leave my grandma’s house after a visit. We had so much fun together as she taught me to sew. She’s 93 years old; I don’t know how many visits we have left. The older I get the more I realize the value of special moments and want to hang on to them as long as I can.

When I got to the last book in the Naria series, The Last Battle, I approached the end with caution, my heart beating faster with every page as I silently longed for the children to get to stay in Narnia. Please, Mr. Lewis, let it end well! Mr. Lewis did not disappoint; in fact, he caught me by complete surprise. If you haven’t read the book, be warned that I’m going to give some of it away.

It was a rollercoaster, this last book. Through the scheming of Shift, the evil ape, and the Calormenes, Narnia is destroyed, and nearly all the children who had been to Narnia from its beginning, though some of them were now quite old, find themselves together, walking with Aslan deeper and deeper into a world that is strangely familiar and yet different—better—than the Narnia they had known. As they walk, they grow lighter in spirit and find that no matter how far they run, they never get tired, nor are they able to feel afraid. Along the way old friends from their adventures greet them, and they experience more joy in these reunions that they ever knew was possible.

And then they ask the question that had been on their minds (and mine!) the whole time: Would they get to stay this time. Aslan explains that they are in the new Narnia, the real Narnia, Narnia as it should have always been, and that this time, because they had all been killed in a train crash, they never again have to leave. “The dream is ended,” he says. “This is the morning.”

At this point in the book, I was sobbing into my pillow from both relief and a strange sort of euphoria. Something about C. S. Lewis’s depiction of eternity resonated with me so deeply that my whole perspective changed.

I’ve known since childhood God’s promise of heaven, but to my younger self, the thought of standing around in a white robe singing praise all day didn’t sound too exciting. As I grew older, the idea of seeing my grandparents or other loved ones again in heaven became more and more appealing, but I wanted to get a bit more out of life on this earth before going down that particular road. Now, though, things are different. Now I’ve known loss that has wounded me and left scars. Now I know I’ll never be able to think away the hollow spot inside me that grows a bit bigger every time I had to say good-bye. Now I feel so deeply the discouragement of a broken world. 

By the grace of God, I’m never without hope; I’m just waiting for the morning.

I know it might sound morbid to say I can’t wait to get to heaven, because unless Jesus returns first, death is a certainty. But going to heaven is not about dying; it’s about living! It’s about using every breath and gift I’ve been given right now to live deliberately—to hug a stranger who’s hurting, speak the truth boldly and with love, give away things I want to hold onto, and pray constantly. It’s about remembering that God didn’t put me on this earth to settle in comfortably and make a good life for myself until he calls me home; he put me here to serve and glorify him, no matter the difficulty or the cost.

As God’s own daughter, I know the best is yet to come. This wonderful knowledge gives me the courage to face my fears and follow God’s lead, even though doing so might push me beyond my comfort zone. It also gives me a new perspective on the happy times in life. I don’t need to hang onto people I love with a white-knuckled grip anymore because I’m afraid I’ll lose them. Of course I’ll lose them—that’s part of life in the shadowlands: everyone dies. So I take advantage of the time we have together, apologize and forgive, and choose to be patient, loving, and unselfish (and pray for a lot of help in those areas!). When God blesses me with mountaintop moments, I accept them with thanksgiving, enjoy them, and then let them go. I realize now that no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep them forever, and that’s okay!

Even though the children loved their time in Narnia, it was only when they experienced life in the new Narnia, Narnia as it should have been, that they knew what it was like to really live. When this temporary life is over and my life in heaven begins, I’ll know joy, peace, hope, and love in ways I’ve only caught glimpses of here on earth. Not to mention, I'll get to attend the best reunion ever! Even my happiest moments in this life can’t compare to the joy of heaven. Can you imagine?

Narnia may be a fantasy, but God’s heaven is not. Morning is coming. Praise God!

The Story That Was Hard to Tell

I need to tell the story that has in many ways defined the past year of my life. My story. It nags at me. The minute my mind slows down, it runs through my head like annoying song lyrics. I’ve avoided telling it because thinking about it too much hurts like a fist in my stomach. But this is a story I need to write if I want to get to the next chapter of my life, and today the time is right. I’m sitting on a wooden swing next to Lake Superior with no distractions or responsibilities. The sound of the water is soothing, and the sun is warm but not hot. I’m ready for a new tune.

It was on April 22, 2011, Good Friday, that I had my last conversation with my mom. She was in the hospital after having emergency surgery on an infection in her foot a week before. It had been a long road for her with more than a month of foot pain and no diagnosis. The doctors said she’d recover, even though whether she’d be able to keep her foot was up in the air, and, of course, she’d needed surgery to correct the malfunctioning heart valve.

That Good Friday she wasn’t herself, and I didn’t like it. There was an emotional disconnect that I can’t explain—like she didn’t know what it meant that I was her daughter, that all the confidences and laughter we’d shared and arguments we’d had were hidden away in a part of her mind she couldn’t access any more. We were acquaintances, she and I. My little nephew asked me to take her a stuffed bunny for him, and she talked to it like a child would. When I told her it was from Kaleb, she didn’t seem to care.

Then she told me she had conspired with my grandma to make sure Kev and I had Easter baskets, and she and my grandma had compiled a grocery list so there would be food in the house for our weekend visit, including pulp free orange juice—the only kind I drink. They’d talked about what we would have for Easter dinner. What a curious thing the human brain is.

I helped her eat her supper; she couldn’t really remember how to hold her spoon. I wanted it to be over, this Good Friday visit. I wanted to go away and come back the next day, when she’d be better. She could only get better. She was dozing off when we left; I don’t think I said “I love you.” I was too selfish. It was all about how I felt, not about how she felt, and this now makes me ashamed. I was naïve to think there would be a tomorrow, but I’m not that naïve anymore. We’re not guaranteed unlimited amounts of time. Love covers over a multitude of wrongs.

After church that night, my dad, grandma, Kev, and I went to the grocery store to get the things on the list my mom and grandma had made. When we saw the hot cross buns, we picked some up to take to my mom the next day, as she looked forward to them every year.  Surely the doctor wouldn’t mind if she had one. The uneasy feeling in my stomach kept me up that night.

The next morning, Kev and I went to the hospital. My dad had talked to my mom on the phone, and she was having a bath. She hadn’t slept well but the bath was helping her feel better.  We got off the elevator and saw my aunt sitting in the lobby. She’d walked it on my mom gasping for breath, unable to find her call button. When the nurses asked my mom her name, she couldn’t say. They’d taken her to the ICU and sedated her so they could insert a breathing tube. They used words like “blood clot,” but nobody really knew. It would be days before “mini strokes” and “kidney failure” became a diagnosis. The nurse who’d cared for her that morning was shocked. “Only minutes before, she was telling me all about her granddaughter,” the nurse said. It doesn’t surprise me that my mom’s last conversation on this earth would involve her grandchildren. I think part of the reason she hung on so long was because of them, but who can really say.

Phone calls were made. My brother got in his car and drove, and my sister and nephew booked a flight for the next day. They ended up staying for a month, going home for my nephew’s kindergarten graduation, and then coming back again for another month. In the weeks ahead, I drove back and forth from Minnesota to Illinois on the weekends, but my sister was there every day through the whole thing. She has her own story to tell.

Easter Sunday I cried through “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” That afternoon at the hospital we urged my mom to wake up. We watched every movement, looking for signs of recognition, pleading with her to give us some clue that she was in there.  The nurses told us to give it time, but they knew she should have been come out of sedation by then. For the first time in my recent memory, I saw my dad cry. We prayed she would recover—hundreds of people prayed with us. “Family of believers” took on new meaning for us. A lot of people loved my mom.

But she never really woke up. She would open her eyes but couldn’t focus on anything. The breathing tube scared her. The infectious disease doctor monitored the blood cultures; the cardiologist told us she was too weak for surgery remove the infectious growth from her heart valve; the nephrologist said her kidneys were taking a beating; the neurologist said the infection broke off from her heart valve and caused mini strokes all over her brain. When they decided to take out the breathing tube, no one knew if she could breathe on her own. We said good-bye and committed her to Jesus, but God gave us more time. She will die of kidney failure on a few days, the doctors told us.

We started planning a funeral; my dad didn’t want to wait until the last minute. He knew just who he would call—the funeral director he’d worked with many times as a pastor, a kind and compassionate man who’d lost his own 18-year-old son and believed with his whole heart in the resurrection. My sister and I picked out funeral clothes for my mom. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said. “Try not to think about it,” my sister replied. We decided on the dress she would have worn for Easter.

Hanging on to the hope that God is stronger than brain injuries and kidney failure, we continued to pray for a miracle. “If you’re going to take her, Lord,” I begged, “please just let her wake up so I can talk to her one last time.” She would have no moment of clarity on her death bed aside from mouthing three or four words of her favorite song as my dad sang to her, “Surely it is God who saves me. I will trust in him and not be afraid.”

On June 10, after being discharged from the hospital and spending a few weeks in a nursing home, my mom died. By then we were ready. By then her death was a blessing. But I still had things to say to her. I suppose I always will. I thought by now, almost a year after her death, I wouldn’t miss her so much. I’m finding it doesn’t work that way, though. I’ll always miss her—we all will.

Her funeral was beautiful. It really was. Our family grew by hundreds that day. No one is shy about hugging at funerals. We felt loved.

Maybe the hardest part of my story was the fact that I lost the mom I knew before she even died. I think the mini strokes started before she’d even been admitted to the hospital. The doctors blamed her confusion and altered personality on the antibiotics and stress her body was under, but they didn’t know her. Even in that, though, God blessed me with a special moment. There was one day when I called her in the morning, not long after her foot surgery. She was tired. I said, “Hi mom; it’s Keri.” She said, “My Keri.” For the rest of my life I will hang on to the memory of the sound of her voice when she said that. At least at that moment, my mom knew me.

I can’t talk to my mom anymore, but I love hearing my aunt and grandma tell stories about my mom’s childhood. There’s a new appreciation for one another in my family. I love the way my relationship with my dad is deepening. It used to be when I called, it was usually to talk to my mom. Now I call to talk to my dad, and it’s nice. He also has a story to tell, and I hope one day he’ll write it down. I love that my siblings and I have common memories and that there’s no danger of my mom being forgotten. My nephew Kaleb remembers his grandma, as do my stepchildren. But my niece was only three and my nephew only a baby when she died. It will be fun to share stories with them about their grandma as they get older. I love spending time with my mom’s friends when they just call to chat or invite me for tea. Maintaining some sort of connection to my mom is important to me, and God’s blessed me with ways to do that.

Grief used to be a burden. It frustrated me that I was not in control of my emotions—that I would at unexpected times cave under the weight of how much I missed my mom. I realize now that grieving is more than just a process to get through and leave behind; the loss I’ve experienced has shaped who I am in beautiful ways. Grief is necessary, but it doesn’t have to be a constant companion. If I’m sad, I need to let the sadness in for a short visit but not invite it to move in. If I feel the tears coming, I need to cry and then blow my nose and embrace the gift that each day is. It’s time to take off the mourning clothes and focus on using my gifts, cherishing my family and friends, loving others like Jesus does, and following where my Savior leads.

That’s my story. It’s not over, though. The next chapter is only just beginning.