The other day when I walked out of my office, the cool, crystal-clear air smelled like a Pennsylvania autumn—a breezy freshness with a touch of smokiness and a trace of cold that might be on its way. Just a couple weekends ago, I was there running a 5K with my sisters in memory of our mom.   And almost a year ago now, I was there for the month of November, spending most of my time with my mom. I treasure and mourn, remember and long for that month, praying that the details of those days will return more fully to my mind.     I drove Mom to her appointments, saw the sealed, metal door...

What I really want to write about tonight is the symphony, and why hearing those three oboes, those tenor-singing cellos, those delicate violins makes it impossible to keep from smiling.   I’m not sure, though, if I can explain it.   Perhaps my love of music, and in this case, classical music, is comparable to my love of books. They have to be the right kind, and good. They can only be enjoyed individually; my enjoyment of them is entirely personal, mixed with my own experiences, feelings and interpretations, not exactly the same as anyone else’s enjoyment of that same tome....

Tonight I came across a draft blog entry that never got posted. I had written it on February 13, at the end of a very busy and stressful week–and four days before my mother’s unexpected death. The blog begins: Last Sunday morning as I was praying, I sensed the Lord was telling me to be expectant. To expect Him to do good things in my life, to give me opportunities to speak into others’ lives. To not be surprised when He answers the needs and desires of my heart. Didn’t He, after all, fill me with hope for this new year back in January? And then, quite unexpectedly, I heard my pastor say as...

The outskirts of loss are deep places. There in the shadows of non-comprehension, there in the smacking reality of pain, emotion and intellect collide. There in the crater of grief lies meaning. And I cannot imagine trying to find it in the midst of such dust without my heavenly Father. Nor could Jesus. In John 17, He stands on the edge of death–and not just normal death, whatever that is. Excruciating death. Torture and torment. Unimaginable humiliation–the Healer wounded, the Savior not rescued, the King executed like a criminal. So Jesus, considering the darkness before Him, turns to...

And somehow this is a gift from my late mother: the draw of eternity.   This life is just the beginning.   I think that’s what Mom would say now—because she is more alive right now than she ever was. She’s just living in a different realm. The pain is ours, not hers. She experiences what we can hardly imagine. She has begun the rest of her life in that hard-to-comprehend state, eternity.   I think, though, one of the points the Scripture makes is that eternity has already begun; it is embedded in our hearts (Ecc. 3:11). Forever starts now. Our lives begin, but they won’t end.   How...