Recalling Dates

As I lay in bed this morning waiting for my alarm to sound, I recalled today’s date. Tuesday, January 20, 2026. It’s not unusual that I do that. Maybe it’s my way of setting in stone the hours before me. Or even more so, just a way of recalling what’s on my schedule for that day: Chick-fil-a with my husband and uncle, Everyday Farm and Garden to deliver my compost bucket (and visit with “our girls”), a trip to the pharmacy next door and five afternoon students.

Honestly, I have this uncanny relationship with dates. In no way is it hyperthymesia, or an autobiographical memory, where I can recall all the events of my past with great detail. But there are a large number of events that have a way of sticking with me. 

Of course, there are birthdays. That’s not that unusual. My husband, my children, grandchild, siblings, my parents and other relatives and friends who are dear to me. What might be unusual though are the birthdays of ones that have long passed. A grandmother, for example, who died when I was in third grade: born Oct. 17, 1902.

Dates of deaths are another that stick with me. Same grandmother: Jan. 17, 1967. Maybe it’s not that unusual to remember death dates, but admittedly, those days don’t bring quite the same celebration as birthdays. Yet those days do give opportunity to stop, remember and hold dear for a while that one who was but no longer is among us. 

What might be more unusual, however, is my ability to recall those dates that are more personal or odd in nature. Dates that often marked me as an individual. Dates that impacted me in a way that are known only to me and sometimes those nearest to me. Dates that are tucked into this heart of mine to be held sacredly and, yes, often times painfully. Like the night my house caught on fire when I was a child … and the fear instilled in me. Or the day of a move, whether to college or picking up roots and moving to another town. All specific dates I can bring up from memory. 

But it could also just as well be a date a word was spoken, both gracious and ill-fitting. A phone call, a letter, an email. A situation that literally changed the trajectory of my life. They all have dates attached to them. So what do I do with that? I give pause: to hold gently, to forgive, to offer thanksgiving, to bless. To remember. 

As I lay in bed this morning thinking about this, I was also aware that where I do NOT have a date is the day I received Christ. Whereas I have many spiritual markers, my testimony has always been and still is that I do not know a day when I did not love Him. When I haven’t known I was His and that He was mine. At one time that bothered me, because church told me I had to have a date to “nail it down.” But what I came to understand is that I didn’t need a date per se .. it was such grace to me. To have always known. 

Have I always lived in that truth, that reality of loving Christ and being known? No. I have failed Him miserably on many occasions and in many seasons. But I am Him. And knowing that has enabled me to face all the other dates that have come and gone. The good ones. The bad ones. The joyful ones. The painful ones. Ones that have held a conglomerate of emotions and feelings all at the same time.

The truth is that, in the end, all dates that I remember as well as all those I don’t, they have all been held by and sifted through the hands of a very good, faithful and loving God who has not only seen every last one of them but walked with me through them … and will continue to do so. And for that, I can say praise be to God.

Just an ordinary moment…

An Ordinary Life

When I began writing this blog some 18 years ago, I named it Ordinary Moments with the idea to just write about my life — and maybe somehow find God in the day to day. I even included a favorite Scripture which has remained on the page: “Teach me to number my days that I might gain a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:12).

Whereas I’m not sure how much I have progressed in the wisdom realm, I do know my days have remained consistently “ordinary” and that, one by one, they are adding up. Over these last almost two decades now, I have not travelled to any distant or exotic regions. I have not made any astounding findings or become an “influencer” on the web. I have not written books or played before thousands. 

What I have done, however, is get up early each day, put one foot in front of the other, and go about the blessed life God has given me. And I imagine that many reading this now can relate in one’s own fashion. 

In 1933, St. Josemaría Escrivá (1902-1975), a Spanish priest and founder of Opus Dei, wrote a 999 point book entitled The Way for the purpose of helping both him and his community to yearn for and to see ‘Christ, the Light of the World.’ In an original copy given to a young architect named Ricardo Fernández Vallespin, Escrivá wrote this dedication:

“May you seek Christ. May you find Christ. May you love Christ.” 

Some 31 years later, in 1967, Escrivá gave a homily which summed up that message:

“Everyday life is the true setting for your lives as Christians. Your daily encounter with Christ takes place where your fellow men, your yearnings, your work, and your affections are. … God is calling you to serve Him in and from the ordinary, secular, and civil activities of human life. He waits for us everyday, in the laboratory, in the operating theatre, in the army barracks, in the university chair, in the factory, in the worship, in the fields, in the home, and in all the immense panorama of work. Understand this well: there is something holy, something divine hidden in the most ordinary situations, and it is up to each one of you to discover it. … There is no other way, my daughters and sons: either we learn to find our Lord in ordinary, everyday life, or we shall never find Him.”

When I read that passage in the Introduction to St. Josemaría’s book, I underlined it, bracketed it, put a huge exclamation mark in the left margin AND wrote a big YES! when I came to the final period. After going back to it again and again, I finally made a copy of it and pasted it in my journal so it could be easily attained and constantly remembered.

So what is your “ordinary” — the place where you seek Christ, find Christ, love Christ? My “ordinary” is in my home, at the grocery store, the plant shop, the bank, and the nursing home, to name a few. (Just yesterday I found Him in the wide eye delight of a nursing home resident eating homemade banana pudding.)

So here’s my exhortation: why not search for Christ today .. right where you are; in that ordinary life of yours. You might not only find Him but I bet you’d also grow in love for Him. That’s what St. Josemaría says. And when you do, you just might find that your ordinary life suddenly appears extraordinary. 

Just an ordinary moment…

Into My Boat

As I embarked on my morning walk, the words to a song that I sang as a four-year-old sitting in a small wooden chair around a little wooden table erupted in my heart. Every week we would end the Sunday School hour by folding our hands, bowing our heads and singing:

“Into my heart, into my heart,

Come into my heart, Lord, Jesus.

Come in today, Come in to stay,

Come into my heart, Lord Jesus.”

It seems eons since I had even thought of those words and yet what a precious memory it evoked some six plus decades later. And so quite naturally I began singing, first silently in my own mind until the thoughts gave way to voice. Over and over I sang it as I rounded corners. “Into my heart, Into my heart, Come into my heart, Lord Jesus….” 

That morning’s Gospel reading had taken me to Mark 6:45-52, a scene with which many are familiar. The disciples are in a boat, a storm is brewing, they are doing everything possible to stay afloat, and Jesus is no where to be seen.

I don’t know about you, but I can relate to that. Anxiety, fear, the need to hold everything together — or at least try to. In fact, sometimes it can be so overwhelming there’s a sense to just give up. To go down with the ship. Maybe you know those feelings as well.

And then the disciples see Jesus. He is not flailing His arms, He is not panic stricken, He is not overwhelmed by the waves, He is not even running toward them in alarm. He is simply walking in the midst of the storm … a storm that seems to be overtaking them and their boat. And what does He say? “Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.” The Passion Translation reads, “Don’t yield to fear. Have courage. It’s really Me — I Am!” If we listen closely, we might even hear Him say, “I AM the Lord of the storm.”  Ask Me in to the boat with you.”

From our perspective, it might seem that Jesus can say these words so calmly because He’s not the one in trouble. He’s not battling the winds or trying to stay afloat. After all, He IS the I Am. Yet He seems so distant. 

Then Mark tells us that Jesus climbed into the boat with them and the stormy winds immediately became still. No doubt “they were completely and utterly overwhelmed with astonishment.” I think I would have been as well. 

No doubt the miracle of walking on the water was pretty impressive, and it’s the part of the story we remember and talk about. But could it be that the real miracle occurs when Jesus climbs into the boat and stills not only the outward storm but maybe more importantly the storms going on within the hearts of His disciples? 

Maybe like me, you have had your own storms of the heart. Fear of the future. Resentment over past hurts. Anger that keeps a grip. Control issues. Or the daddy of them all: pride that shows itself in a thousand ways. The list is pretty endless. The question is are we going to keep battling the storms by just rowing harder and harder? Or are we going to ask Jesus to climb into the boat with us? 

Thankfully, the disciples let Him in. Despite their fear, and confusion and utter astonishment, they made room in their wind-tossed,sinking boat. And what happened? The winds calmed. The Word actually uses the word “ceased.” Why? Because Jesus had taken His place in the boat. And where He is there is peace.

So about my childhood prayer, “Into my heart”? I changed a word and as I rounded the block, I sang:

“Into my boat, into my boat,

Come into my boat, Lord Jesus.

Come in today, Come into stay.

Come into my boat, Lord Jesus.”

“Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.” Words not spoken from a distance, but from the edge of the boat to be welcomed inside.

Won’t you sing the invitation with me? We each just might find “stillness.”

Just an ordinary moment. 

My Word for 2026

I am not one who makes new year resolutions. Like most, I don’t keep them well. But there is a ritual I have done now since 2014 and that is to adopt a word for the year. Adopt might not be the most accurate description because it’s not something I choose, but rather something that is given. I begin in mid to late December asking the Lord for a word for the upcoming year and then I begin intentionally listening for it. Waiting for it. The last decade has given rise to such words as Freedom, Grace, Face-to-Face, Let it Be, Joy, Beauty, and last year’s, Listen, just to name a few. Most often the word is mine before the ball drops, but sometimes it’s not fully revealed until a week or two into January. 

This year proved to be an early announcement. Quite honestly, I was sure my word for 2026 was going to be Silence. I had been sitting on that sequence of letters for several months, all the way up to the week before Christmas, when it was revealed. It was early morning, the lights were twinkling on the mantel, the dogs had settled back down and my earbuds were in when the Catholic sister prayed, “Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, my soul waits for You in …” And in that short nano-second, time completely incinerated and eternity happened. I was confident she was going to say “silence” — after all that was my upcoming word and this was going to be my confirmation. But that is not what she said, Rather, she uttered, “My soul waits for You in … stillness.” My head jerked, I’m sure, as my heart pinged. What was that? Stillness? Was that my word? I filed it in a sacred place to wait because my secure nail is a testimony of three.

Upon finishing my time, I opened up my Facebook and a page for Float Robins came up: “What do you get the person who has everything? How about the gift of …” And, yes, in huge bold letters across the entire add was “STILLNESS.” That’s two. I filed it with a little more excitement.

There are three daily word games I use for brain health (that’s my excuse anyway). Wordle, Waffle, and sQworble.  In that order. I guess by now one would not be surprised to learn that “stillness” was one of the answers on the final puzzle. My testimony of three. I was convinced I had a new word.

But it seems the Lord knows I can be a slow learner. The next day, I heard Jonathon Roumie say, “How do we become the people of STILLNESS we strive to be?” I pulled out my pencil and journaled #4. And for good measure, the Tuesday before Christmas, I opened my email to find a substack from Mirabai Starr with the subject title, “Extravagant Stillness.” Enclosed was her beautiful poem entitled the same. There was no question as my word for 2026: STILLNESS.

Through my Ordinary Moments I look forward to unwrapping this word with you as we move through 2026. In the meantime, why don’t you ask God for your own? It just might mean a journey that brings greater awareness of Him.

Just an ordinary moment…

What Bank Statements, Garbage Day and Bookshelves Have in Common

I have often said that there are at least three ways you can know someone without really knowing them. I came upon the first one when I worked at The Bank of Perry back in the summer of 1978. I found out a lot about people by how they spent their money; more specifically, to whom and for how much they wrote their checks each week. I don’t know how the banking system works now, but back then, that job was an eye opener — but then again, I was only 19 years old. But I am somewhat surprised we bank employees didn’t have to sign some kind of gag order to protect the integrity of some of the customers.

Another revelation came when I began walking the neighborhood. Especially on trash pick up and recycle day. I could surmise who lived in that home based on the garbage left on the street: if there were babies, toddlers, teenagers, adults, or an elderly couple inside. I knew what they ate, when they ordered pizza, what they drank (and how much), what scent they used to wash their laundry, and often what gadget or electronic they had recently purchased. I could even tell where they shopped for most of this. All from a little healthy exercise around the block on trash day. (And mind you, I did NOT have to go digging.)

The third thing that exposes a person is their bookshelf, realizing you have to be privy to the inside of the house in order to entertain this one. My friends will tell you that when I am invited to their home for the first time, I am intrigued by their bookshelves. Not just the books but the relics on the shelves as well. Of course, the first thing I notice is if they are a reader or not. Are there more artifacts and decor than books? And if there are, I’m often going to point to or stroke an item or two and ask them for the story behind it. Should there even be one, and most of the time there is, it always provides a most engaging time with the host or hostess … and I leave knowing more about them.

But the books can also be a huge telltale sign of a person’s inner workings; what they enjoy, their points of interest and often their own personal journeys. First of all, I am a self-diagnosed book addict so I can say nothing unfavorable about anybody’s personal library. I would be embarrassed to count and share the number of pages on my shelves. No doubt, you could tell a lot about me by standing in front of them. First and foremost that I hoard books.

I am not a fan of estate sales; they make me uncomfortable and sad for a number of reasons. But if I have known the person through my lifetime, I will make an attempt to go for one reason only: to find a small “something” that will live in my home as a remembrance of them. And a couple of weeks ago, I had just that opportunity. The husband had died a number of years ago and the wife has now gone to an assisted facility. Knowing these two individuals, I knew exactly where I wanted to go: the kitchen/dining room and the library. 

Grace exemplifies her name. One of the most genteel, soft spoken and gracious women you could ever meet. To remember her, I selected a small but beautifully etched crystal bowl with a dome lid. I will use it when I have ladies around my own dining room table … and I will tell them of her graciousness. 

But the library is where I spent most of my time. The organizers of the sale told me that the family had kept a large portion of their parents’ books, so I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like because there were still so many treasures left to be found. If I had had the time, I would have taken each one in my hand and thumbed through it; and many I did. After all, there are often trinkets to be found stuck within pages and I have been known to purchase that book for just that novelty.

In 1975, Steve Pace was appointed District Attorney for Houston County and served for many years before a freak accident occurred while he and Grace were out walking the neighborhood one evening. A dog clipped him, he fell and sustained a debilitating brain injury. In his library, I held each book carefully, sacredly, and with respect. How could I not? These volumes spoke of a brilliant man, a learned man, a military man, a prayerful man, a holy man. A kind of man that even a physical injury could not erase. 

Of course, I brought home several for my own shelf, but two were particularly favorites: one being a 1946 Enlarged Edition (with illustrations) entitled “Life’s Extras” by Archibald Rutledge. Favorite passages were marked with a pencil. Indeed, a man after my own heart. I followed the landscape Steve had marked out for me:

“There are very few sounds in the natural world that are harsh. Even the massive rolling thunder has about it something of solemn beauty. In anthems, the sea rolls on the beach; and in the sunny shallows there are water-harps forever making melodies. The wind is a chorister. Many a wild bird can warble like an aerial rivulet. The world is really a melodious place, full of soft sounds and harmony. … I went one day into the forest to try to escape from a grief that had come to me — the loss of one dearly beloved. A little way within the borders of that fragrant, dewy forest … I heard a warble singing. He was in the crest of a bald cypress, high over the dreamy waters of a little woodland lake. The bird’s song sounded like a delicate astral flute, sounded softly and sweetly, to lure me out of my trouble. … Like a voice of a spirit was this music; it came to me calmly yet thrillingly. Like a quieting hand was that beautiful song, to cool the fever of care, to still the pulse’s leap. … And what did the music and the beauty, those extras, bring me? Passing from a state of keenest grief I came to one of quiet reconcilement — to the profound conviction that, living or dying, God will take care of us.”

Another shorter passage underlined on a dog-eared page: “Stars fill me with a sense of God; and the heart cannot help being grateful when it remembers that the beauty and the wonder of them may be accounted things not to enable us to excite, but gifts of love to make us joyous.”

Another treasure was an 1895 copy of “The Story of the Other Wise Man” by Henry Van Dyke. The story tells of another wise man that had seen the star, but in his journey, he gave his gifts to those in need and never made it to the Child. No doubt, a most appropriate one by which to remember Steve Pace, for on the final page we read, “‘Verily I say unto thee, inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, thou hast done it unto Me.’ A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like the first ray of dawn on a snowy mountain-peak. One long, last breath of relief exhaled gently from his lips. His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.” 

Bookshelves can reveal who we are. Good or bad.

So I have to wonder: what will these things reveal about me? What will my bank statements and the books and artifacts on my shelves say about my life and what I took interest in? Will they speak to the evidence of a life lived for Christ and His Kingdom? Or will it all just need to be thrown to the street on garbage day to be looked upon by those passing by?

I think those are valid questions to ask. 

Just an ordinary moment.

Grandma Gatewood I Am Not

Emma Rowena Caldwell Gatewood. Maybe you have heard of her. Maybe you haven’t. I was introduced to her a number of years ago through a book written of her life: “Grandma Gatewood’s Walk.” And what a walk it was. After a very difficult life as a farm wife, a mother to eleven children and a survivor of domestic abuse, in 1955 at the age of 67, she hung up her apron and told her children she was going for a walk — and that she did, setting her feet on the Appalachian Trail, becoming the first solo woman to hike the entire 2,168 miles. And she didn’t do it just once, but three times. Her story is a fascinating one and worth the read. 

But Grandma Gatewood I am not. In fact, there’s nothing about our lives that intertwine. For starters, I have never even set my foot on the Appalachian Trail — though I would like to one day.

However, I did take a couple of hikes last week as my husband and I spent a few days in the north Georgia mountains. The first was a 2.65 mile trek around a lake. It was listed as “easy” as far as trails go. And it was. Just the normal roots and slippery terrain that might be conducive to a path after a rain. But both beautiful and peaceful.

The next day we upped our game and took the “moderate” 2.93 mile hike on Bottom Loop Trail. My first clue should have been the deep descent toward the beginning of our adventure. Though I had already figured it out, my husband turned around and said, “This is what makes it ‘moderate,’ because the only way out is back up.” But down we went; and the further in, the further down. 

As a good wife should, I let my husband take the lead. Not because I’m naturally submissive or anything, but because as a man of the woods himself, he knows how to look for snakes and where to place his feet and that was important to me. He also knocked the cobwebs out of the way which was a plus. My job, however, was self imposed. While watching where I placed my feet, I also looked for bears. After all, prior to checking into our lodge, I had to sign a bear waiver. Yes, you read that correctly. A BEAR WAIVER. Why else would I have to sign a bear waiver if there weren’t any bears to waiver? So I kept my eyes open and quietly rehearsed bear protocol in my mind, from everything to remaining calm and moving away quietly in the opposite direction to just running faster than my husband. I also wished I had read up on the “natural” bug spray I had doused myself with before heading out. Did it repel, attract, or aggravate the bears I had waivered? Hmm.

As a forester’s wife, I have been deep in the woods many times, but always in a truck or at least a near proximity to it. Never in a place such as this … on foot with no “service” should I need it. In all seriousness though, it was a beautiful hike, taking us deep into the forest floor where the most brilliant orange mushrooms grew out of trees, where the birds called to one another in lyrical song, and the sound and sight of flowing water tumbling over rocks was a constant. To be in the bowels of God’s creation was just as breathtaking and exhilarating as being in the heights. 

But there was one thing of which I was constantly aware (other than the bears, of course), and that was the wind. Both its presence and the lack of. At times my husband and I both would stretch out our arms and feel it whipping all around us. How could it even find us down there? At other times, we couldn’t feel it, but we could hear its effects high in the trees above us with both the leaves rustling or branches breaking. And then there were moments of intense stillness. Knowing it was there, because we were still breathing, but hearing or feeling nothing.

How could I not think of Jesus’ encounter with Nicodemus when He told him, “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” The Spirit as wind. The “Ruach”. The Breath of God. I was also reminded of the ways I have experienced that “Wind” in my own life. There are times that I stretch out my arms and can feel His presence, dancing and twirling, both spiritually and physically, to His refreshment. There are other times when I can listen and know that He is moving about me by what I hear or see. Music. Art. Creation. Faces. Voices. But there are also times when I am bereft of any feeling or awareness except to know that I am still breathing. But even in those moments, I can be assured of His presence because I have the story of Elijah in I Kings 19:11-13 that speaks of the Lord in the stillness. In the silence. In the “bereftness.”

Whether Grandma Gatewood put her faith in the Creator of creation, we are not told. But what I do know is that He walked every step of the way with her whether she acknowledged Him or not … because that is what He does and who He is. Surely she felt the wind, she heard its sounds, and she breathed its air. She walked in its mystery just as we all do. Oh, that we would not miss Him, but that we would have ears, eyes and hearts to know Him, to experience Him, as He reveals Himself to us in such profoundly mysterious ways.

As for the bears, except for the two large, dark logs that I momentarily misinterpreted, the only ones I saw were ones that had been preserved at the hands of a taxidermist and now stand rampant in an exhibit at the top of the world, or at least Georgia’s highest summit: Brasstown Bald. Turns out I didn’t have to try to outrun my husband after all. For as the saying goes, when chased by a wild animal, you don’t have to be the fastest; you just don’t want to be the slowest.

Just an ordinary moment…

The Art of Grieving

Love cannot help but remember; remembrance cannot help but weep. Unfortunately our culture sees weeping as a weakness; therefore we feel embarrassed or ashamed when we do shed tears, especially in public. Yet grief springs from the deepest part of our soul because the root of that grief is great love. So why should we apologize when our expressions of grief should be the most natural of things to occur? The most natural expressions of one who has loved?

No doubt we live in a culture that exalts life and averts its eyes to death. Everything we see, every commercial on TV, is about prolonging life, not letting go of it. And when death or loss does come, we do everything in our ability to “move forward” in a quick manner. To pull up our boot straps and say, “I’m okay.” But if we are honest with ourselves, the hole in us is larger than ever. In fact, the experts tell us that not to grieve well, appropriately and timely, to move forward too fast, may lead to mental health issues like depression and anxiety. It can cause physical problems like trouble sleeping, digestive issues, and a low immune system. Compulsive behaviors. Relationship issues. Work performance. Who wants any of that on top of loss? Yet it is what we choose or are thrust into in place of appropriate grieving.

It hasn’t always been this way. Culture used to allow us time to weep, to grieve, and, yes, to even celebrate. But it seems that more and more we are rushing right to the celebration part. In fact, many funerals are being labeled just that: “Celebrations of Life.” And I get that. But we don’t need to pretend there is nothing to be consoled about. We don’t need to play act that everything is good … when it is not. Something sad and irrevocable HAS happened, regardless of the circumstances. We don’t need quick fixes. We need time and opportunity to grieve those people whom we have loved and lost in whatever manner that loss has occurred.

I recall a dear friend who lost her husband some thirty years ago. Glenda Anderson Leonard was and still is one of the finest, strongest and most sincere women of faith I know. After Paul died, his widow dressed in black for an entire year. She gave place to her grief, wearing it as a badge of honor to her husband and their marriage and as a statement of her immense loss. And no doubt she was healthier for it. It was also a reminder to the rest of us to treat her kindly, gently, and with respect knowing that where she looked alive, together and beautiful on the outside there was a broken heart and grieving soul within. She also helped us not to forget Paul too quickly, himself a giant in this world. She knew the art of grieving and she taught us well.

Another one who taught me well was a caregiver that sat with Daddy in the evenings and on weekends. When she learned of his passing that morning, she rushed over and while my brothers and I were being reverent yet stoic, she threw her entire self over my daddy’s body and wept loudly. It almost shamed me that I didn’t respond so passionately to this man who had birthed, raised and loved me so dynamically. This woman, this woman’s culture, knows how to grieve. I needed to see that.

Grief is natural, if we let it be. It’s also a journey. We’ve all heard the well laid out model: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. But seriously, who has ever moved easily through those stages without backing up two steps before moving ahead three? Unfortunately, I have not been able to maneuver those waters well myself. Circumstances thrust me forward and left me little if any time to properly grieve my losses. When my brother died after an heroic battle with brain cancer, seeing to my parents, specifically my daddy, became the most pressing need. It was a long goodbye of dementia with the last fifteen months spent in a Hospice bed in the den of his home. Not given much time to grieve, ten days after his passing, Mom went into the hospital with pneumonia, only to recover and have a stroke six weeks later that resulted in full time care. It, too, has become a long goodbye. Just this week, after one of my daily visits, showing her videos of birds at my feeder and then working a jigsaw puzzle with her, she asked the caregiver after my departure, “Why did she keep calling me Mom? I don’t think I’m her mom.” Long goodbyes. Losses. Grief. Even when the loved one is still alive.

And so this is where I find myself: with mounted grief. Much of it unexpressed. Maybe you do as well. What do we do with that?

First and foremost, we turn to Christ; the One who was Himself acquainted with grief. The One who came and pitched His tent with humanity. The One who shares this journey with us. The One who sees us, knows us, and Who alone can fill those holes left by those whom we have loved and lost.

We can be encouraged that death does not have the final say. That there is a glorious Resurrection where all things will be set right. Where there will be joy and a true Celebration of Life.

We can also give way to the life-giving creative forces within us which is a natural expression of grief. For me, it’s my music. My writing. My journaling. I have a friend who began painting after the death of her husband. Another who cooks … an artistic expression after the loss of her mother. Another who threw herself into gardening.

We can also be thankful. Is it not true that to love at all opens the door to both loss and grief? But surely we can agree with Alfred, Lord Tennyson when he wrote, “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Master Eckhart, a 16th Century mystically aware theologian, adds, “To have much is to have much to lose; we ought to remember this when we face a loss, so that this might become our place to be thankful.” A hard word; but never a more true one: gratitude.

And finally, we can let go. Malcom Guite, chaplain, poet, teacher, musician and author writes, “It is not a letting go of love, or a letting go of memory or even of grief. We need to let go in order to receive. In spite of the first shock and emptiness, the sense of unjust deprivation, our long experience of grief can eventually open us up to receiving real gifts: wisdom, empathy and compassion, which might have been received in no other way.”

O Lord, may it be.

Just an ordinary moment…