Yes, the little things – all of which added up to the wonderful woman you became. There is so much more… no words now, only tears. I’m trusting the contents of my heart are somehow known to you. Oh honey to say that I miss you is like saying I miss light, or oxygen, or water. Yet, I gain comfort from knowing you’re whole, and have a new body, and see Him face-to-face.

Of all the people in our family, you always seemed to go through things first, usually painful things, scary things, at times life-threatening things. Though I miss you every single day, how fitting it is for you to get to the good stuff – the very fulfillment of our hopes – first. Good for you, Jess!

Less than 3 months before she died, Jessica posted one of those surveys that regularly circulate the web via both email and social networking websites. I came across Jess’ ‘25 Random Facts About Me’ survey while looking for biographical information that I was scheduled to present to a bereavement support group I’d joined about three weeks after she passed. Some of her comments are, hands down, hilarious. Parts are very touching. Still other comments have brought tears to my eyes on more than one occasion and though the temptation to delete them from this writing is present, to do so would not present Jess’ thoughts the way she wrote them because overall, I realized the composite created by these ‘Random Facts’ paints a fairly accurate picture of Jessica – woman, wife, daughter, sister, friend – the list goes on. Many of those who read this will no doubt realize they’ve seen it before. However, before clicking off the page, I invite you to read it either for the first time, or to read it again. As you do, I want to invite you to comment – so others have a ‘window’ to remembering Jessica through your thoughts and/or eyes. Perhaps something will trigger a memory. Perhaps, though you did not know Jessica very well – or at all, you relate in some way to a specific comment – or many comments – of hers. Perhaps you simply have something in general you’d like to say. If you’re referring to a specific line, don’t forget to write the line’s number in your comment. All I ask is that posts reflect your perspective of something about Jessica’s life, or her ‘Random Facts’ below. Obviously if you choose not to comment, that’s totally fine. It is my hope that you thoroughly enjoy Jessie’s reflections just the same.

If you knew Jessica, you may disregard the below paragraph and go directly to ‘25 Random Facts’ below.
With the understanding that this blog has a reach beyond my immediate family and friends, I’ll briefly restate the events of that fateful day.
In the middle of the night of last April 11th, 2009, I received a phone call from my son telling me that Jessica was in trouble. He didn’t know much, only that she’d collapsed at home in her husband Matt’s arms, had been in the emergency room of a local Mesa, Arizona hospital for most of the evening, and now had been taken to the intensive care unit. Jessica passed – went *home* – the following morning, shortly before her mother, brother, and myself, having flown to Phoenix from three different airports, could get to the hospital.

That said, Here goes…
 

1. I LOVE chap stick. I’m obsessed with it. I put it on all day long and every time, I put on *exactly* 8 coats on each lip.

2. I’m horribly insecure. I like to say that I don’t care what others think about me but in reality, I care TOO much.

3. If I could pick a perfect temperature, it would be 72 degrees all year long. Why am I living in Arizona then?

4. I can’t get enough time with my dog Meeko. He’s been my companion during the days these last couple years. He’s a midget with no legs and thinks he’s a cat most of the time. He’s severely confused and it makes me laugh all the time. He’s the perfect pet!

5. I carry 2 chap sticks in my pocket all the time… Mine in my right pocket, Meeko’s in my left pocket. Okay so this is mostly a weird fact about him, but I crack up and giggle every time he licks his chap stick. He looks like a baby sucking on a bottle when he does it. He LOVES it!

6. I’m a sucker for Mexican food. Namely, enchiladas. I could eat them every day for the rest of my life and be happy.

7. Even though I have a *ton* of medical issues since, I am still glad I had the gastric bypass. I can’t imagine being that overweight again.

8. I don’t have many close friends anymore. My close girlfriends now consist of Vanessa, (who will always be my bestest girlfriend) Jen, Kristen and my cousin Christine. I don’t see them enough and it hurts.

9. I love to laugh but don’t get the chance as much these days. My husband Matt can always make me laugh though. I don’t think he realizes how well… But sometimes it is just the look on his face when he’s doing something cute or some side-comment he makes. That man *always* knows how to make me laugh, whether he realizes it or not.

10. I am still heart broken over my parent’s divorce. I put on a strong face for them, to be supportive of them and not let them see my pain… But it still breaks my heart. What in the heck happened to my family?

11. I’m scared for my/our future. I don’t know how it could get better, considering the circumstances, but I have faith that God can do anything.

12. A couple of my absolute favorite foods: Got Sushi! chimi rolls, (the BOMB!). Filly’s medium wings with lots of ranch. Macayo’s baja chicken enchiladas. If I ever did move away from here, I’d lose a lot of weight!

13. I have no idea what to do with my life. Broken and disabled… I know what I want but have no clue how to get there. Nor do I know which foot to put forth first.

14. I have an irrational fear of failure. So much so that it handicaps me every day.

15. I’m absolutely obsessed with pens. I *rarely* write anything anymore, (besides the occasional shopping list) but I still insist on having 138 pens at all times. No wonder my purse is so heavy!

16. I used to be the girl who liked the “pretty boys”. You know, the ones with great hair. I married a man with none. (giggling) I think he still wishes for a full head of hair but I would never have it. Not even if he was given a free ticket to the hair club for men or something. I like his bald head. And there is something strangely soothing about running my hands over the peach fuzz on the back of his head.

17. I am completely obsessed with my niece Sarah. My brother finally has a kid and I cannot get enough. I live for new photos and videos of her as well as times to web-cam with her. I *love* the way she says my name.

18. I love Mountain Dew Code Red. It tastes like carbonated fruit punch and has the amount of caffeine I need to get through the day. And in a large cup with LOTS of ice.

19. I don’t like any other type of soda. Too thick! If I have my druthers, its either Code Red or sweetened ice tea.

20. Some of the cutest things my husband does, (that reaffirm that I’m in love with him, every day) the look on his face when he wakes up and sees me there… The little “mmMmmm” sound he makes in my ear when he’s completely asleep and cuddles up behind me… And of course, the cute little, mangled face he makes when he’s playing the drums. That last one makes me giggle uncontrollably, every time!

21. I love movies. I can watch them all day long. And I usually go to sleep every night while watching one, too.

22. I have to sleep with earplugs… Every night! It gets old, but at least that’s the way I can sleep next to my bear-snoring of a hubby.

23. I have a fascination with bugs and creepy-crawlies. They really give me the heebies but I can’t help it. I can’t seem to stop myself from watching them and looking for them.

24. I love the smell of office supplies. The more the better!

25. The only dream I have left for my life is to be a mother. I want to experience pregnancy, delivery, nursing. All of it! It’s the only dream I haven’t already experienced, the #1 dream I’ve had all my life… And it may very well be the one I don’t ever experience.

At sunset I was driving just south of a little berg called Wheeler Ridge when the reflected glow of orange-to-red rays of sunlight lit the bottoms of dark gray clouds scattered across the valley sky. This, combined with vivid purple wildflowers which covered the ground – literally in the millions – created an ethereal scene that fooled my senses. The purple ground cover, illuminated by the reflected dusk, had the appearance of actually glowing from within. It was such a striking effect that a number of motorists had pulled off the shoulder of the freeway to take photographs. Not in the frame of mind to haul my camera out and do the same, I’d simply taken it all in as I continued my journey south.

Now descending the southern portion of the Grapevine after having stopped for gas as well as to stretch in the town of Lebec, I was road-weary. As I drove through the Castaic Valley, I listened to a compact disk I’d made the day before. The volume on the van’s CD player was far louder than I’d have had it if someone else were in the car with me. Thoughts of the past decade had been drifting through my mind all day. Hopes for that which lies ahead were, too. This is a bittersweet move in ways. As I’d mentioned in a previous writing, I’m consciously bringing this chapter of my life to a close. It’s sort of like having surgery. In operating on someone’s body, the intent is to restore, to make it well, to fix that which has been broken or is not working properly. The thing is, the surgeon must inflict intentional wounds in order to make things right. Yet healing from surgery is far better than going on – without being whole. I think of the Apostle Paul in Phillipians, chapter 3; I press on – I do not want to finish this life without laying hold of that for which Christ Jesus laid hold of me for. I guess you could say that I’m going through a sort of surgery for the soul. I’m chuckling to myself as I write – thinking, “It’s sort of like ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’, but a lot more severe.” Yep, I like that, I’ll not edit that line out – it is fitting.

Reaching La Crescenta, a smallish, unincorporated community in Los Angeles County about sixteen miles north-northwest of downtown L.A., I pulled my van into my friend Terry’s driveway. After gathering my things, I stepped out of the van – and into a warm, welcoming hug. I was tired. It had been decided that dinner would be barbecued steaks, it was too late to go out. That sounded lots better to me than getting back into a car and traveling – even if it would be just across town. Terry’s son grilled Rib Eye’s for all of us, they were fabulous. These are familiar surroundings – Terry and her father Lloyd have been close friends for many years. After dinner I hung around and visited for a short while, then said goodnight and headed out. Food in my stomach had sealed my intentions – I needed to get some sleep.

My night was restless. Changes – a lot of them at one time – can cause one to tilt off-balance for a time. I’m doing what I need to do in taking care of myself – mostly through reframing my thoughts when there is more than one perspective to be seen. It is infinitely more difficult to reframe while asleep – I don’t believe it’s actually possible – the mind will go where it needs to go and mine was buzzing with activity as I tried to sleep. Physically, an old billboard climbing injury to my left knee has flared with all of the activity connected to my move. There are few things I like less than being awakened by pain, and my knee bothered me, aching intermittently throughout the night. I finally drifted off around first light, and slept soundly for a couple of hours.

My move is going along well, I’m getting down there. I had to stop yesterday and today in order to sift through a mountain of paperwork for taxes, etc. Having nearly completed the task, it’s time to get back to boxing my remaining stuff. I’ve had a couple of kind offers for help, yet the stuff I have left to pack are largely things which require my personal attention.

Though I believe I’m doing the right thing on a number of levels, I’m doing my best to shake off lingering doubts which annoyingly lurk in the periphery of my mind, my heart. Doubts such as unanswered questions about my future, the fact that I am putting a greater distance between myself and many whom I care deeply for, etc. A habit I’ve been reengaging in with the intent of being single-minded is in the ability to ‘reframe’ my thoughts, to get underneath and to peel back the layers of a thing. It really helps in my coming to a place of peacefully trusting God. I certainly don’t usually start there. The scripture in 2 Corinthians 10:5 comes to mind, “…casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.” A good example is when, a number of months ago while in the throes of grief and despair, a woman commented, “I’ve never lost a child, but I had this dog…” I think I may have written about it in a previous post here. Anyway, I was initially shocked. I began to angrily ask myself why she would make such a clueless comment. “Reframe, John, reframe, take these thoughts captive.” I soon realized that her intention was to comfort me, she was trying her best to relate, not to offend. Although she was reaching, she (thankfully) had no real point of reference. I asked God to forgive my assuming the worst – and was able to let it go quickly, before getting too worked up over it.

I’m re-framing a lot today, and doing my best to remember the things presently weighing me down are earthly cares.

I’m also realizing as I write that I have had a couple of *blocks* in returning to my packing. There sits on one of my couches a couple of small bags. They have been in the same spot for more than a month, because they are a precious few of Jessica’s personal belongings. Inside the bags are an old personalized “CHEEZY” license plate, a number of photos, some of her most prized pieces of jewelry, and a couple of gifts I’d bought for her – all of which I value – I just had no idea I’d be inheriting them. Now I’m beginning to cry – no need to reframe when it comes to remembering my girl. I also have a beautiful forest green cloth satchel in my bedroom, a gift from a friend, which contains the urn that held Jess’ remains. It is the same one I carried from Arizona in September, then Matt took to Gualala when he cast them into the sea. I’ve opened it once since our family made the trip in November – only to see the dust covered, copper-colored urn inside, still in the burgundy satin cloth I’d reverently, lovingly wrapped around it. The satchel has remained unopened since.

Okay, a short break and the tears have stopped, I actually feel better. Catharsis, related to just letting the tears fall, is my guess. I find a cathartic release through both music and writing as well. In adjusting my focus, I believe it’s time to pack these things. I’ll not store them – they shall go where I go. Part of closing this chapter of my life is in closing the figurative door, as much as I am able, to the intense sadness and heartache which has accompanied Jessica’s death. In less than a month, it will be a year since she passed. I will remember her on that day in my new digs. That’s one of the reasons I decided to move on sooner than later. I’ve known from the beginning that I could not, would not, stay in the emotionally spent, depressed and just plain downtrodden mindset I’ve been in. Yet the balance for me is, it’s my opinion that each grieves in a distinct manner – and I have been careful to not pin myself down with laying expectations upon myself that I have not had the emotional reserve to fulfill. I find the pain is and will be there, yet my memories are changing from replaying that horrible day over and over a million times in graphic detail, as well as replaying thoughts of the night before as described to me, when she collapsed in Matt’s arms – to remembering Jessica in life.

Anyway, figuring that I’d originally paid three or four bucks apiece for them and did not want to waste money, I nabbed the old boxes from my closet. Then I folded, taped and assembled each one, proceeding afterward to load ‘em up with my earthly treasures. The first problem which arose was figuring out a safe way to stack the danged things. With dented corners, torn tops, and rounded sides, this was no easy task. But, with the help of more heavy duty packaging tape than I thought I’d need, I managed, sort of. The next steps in the process proved to be a bit more of a challenge. I live in a huge old Victorian house which has been converted to eight small apartments. Fortunately my apartment is on the ground floor, close to the main entry door. Unfortunately, outside the main entry door there remains a small flight of concrete stairs which one must traverse in order to get to street level. I’m a big fan of full disclosure – those who know me well would tell you that I’m not the most coordinated guy in town, which I’ve found both amusing and perplexing because of the unforgiving nature of the work I did for nearly twenty-five years in climbing and painting large – often very high – billboards. My klutziness is mainly due to my being ‘in my head’ a lot, and not paying close enough attention to what’s going on around me. Such was not the case when I was a teenager – back then I was just plain clumsy. My siblings will readily tell you of how everyone would grab breakable drinking glasses, dishware, etc. whenever I was about to get up from the dinner table.

So, the next step was to get the boxed goods from my apartment to my truck. Easy, right? One would think so. The first thing I noticed about the now full, roundish boxes with the afore-mentioned dents, tears, etc. was that it was really difficult to get a solid purchase with my hands on the cardboard when stooping to pick one up. But, I managed. Here’s where the fun started. I needed to get the boxes from my living room, out my front door, through the hallway, out of the main entrance, down the stairs, and to my truck. You’d think I would have had the foresight to open my front door before hefting a box off the floor – but no, I usually think of such things after the critical moment in which it would actually help has passed. So there I was, half bent over, balancing this once rectangular, crumpled box with my left arm and right thigh so I could open the door. Got it, that went fairly smoothly. Once through the doorway, the thought occurred to me that I’d really prefer to not have my neighbors possibly see what a mess my apartment is – and decided I now needed to close the door. So, again – left arm, right thigh. The box felt kind of mushy. As I reached for the doorknob with my free hand, the thing began to slowly slip down my right leg. In an attempt to correct for this unforeseen complication, I lunged forward with my free left leg – and solidly smacked the door jamb with the right side of my head. Hard. I’d bumped the door with the box in my arms and as my head made contact, the door had swung out of reach. Grumbling, I let the box fall to the floor. Was that a muffled, tinkling sound I heard as it touched down? I really don’t remember if I verbalized the contents of my brain out loud in that moment. I hope not.

Retrieving the box from the floor, my trip through the common hallway to the front entry was uneventful. The entry to my building consists of double doors. Facing them from the inside, the one on the left is for daily use, having one of those automatic door-closing thingy’s mounted on the top inside corner, and an automatically locking deadbolt. The door on the right is locked shut. Planning my strategy for getting the entry door open, I thought it best to set the box down this time. Easy. Now to twist the spring-loaded deadbolt, push the door open, grab the box and stick my left foot in the path of the returning door before it shut and automatically locked. I evidently did not move fast enough. The door swung open just fine, but was quicker to begin to swing shut than I’d remembered and pinched my foot between the concrete and the bottom of the door. My eyes narrowed (my children used to get as far from me as possible when this rare phenomenon occurred), my head still hurt from the first phase of this operation. I pulled my stuck foot out from under the door and flawlessly carried out my plan – until I came to the stairs. Still holding the door open with my left elbow, my field of vision was blocked in front of me by the box in my arms. Then I mis-judged the width of the landing. Stepping forward, my right foot found air, not concrete. Abruptly stumbling forward now, I immediately let go of the box and blindly grabbed for the handrail. The box, then airborne, cleared the stairs, hitting the cement walkway beyond, bursting one side completely open. A definite broken-glass ‘tinkling’ sound came from within. Finding the handrail, I grasped it tightly as my body spun left, my legs firmly pressed into the wrought iron railing to the point of bending my waist over the top, nearly doing a face-plant into the tall shrubbery adjacent to the stairs. I have no idea how both of my size thirteen feet landed squarely on the second step, but was eternally grateful they had.

I don’t like old moving boxes. Why?

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
When Jesus spoke the parable of the New Wine, He was contrasting God’s Old Covenant of law which was given to the Jews, with the New Covenant of love and grace which is offered to any who will come, thereby illustrating the incompatibility between Judaism and Christianity. It’s also worth noting the history of the Christian Church has seen through the ages many outpourings of the Holy Spirit resulting in many new works, pouring new wine into new wineskins. In a literal sense, new wine is fermenting. The strain brought about by gas pressure from new wine poured into old, hardened wineskins is that it would cause the wineskin to rupture. A new wineskin is pliable and will allow for expansion during the fermentation process. As time goes by, man, being predisposed to ‘fixing’ that which already works through a variety of things which can and do supplant the work of the Spirit, causes the wineskin to harden, thereby limiting the effectiveness of that which worked well when it was new and fresh and filled with the life of God. In His infinite wisdom, God then raises up a new work, or wineskin – and pours out new wine – people led by His Spirit – to fill it as He accomplishes His purposes through the agency of the Holy Spirit both in and through the church in a general sense – and specifically in the hearts and minds of His people. He removes both His blessing and His Spirit from the old, hardened wineskin – it has become too inflexible, too rigid, filled with what at that point amounts to empty religiosity.

It has been said that the only real constant in life is change. From a human standpoint, we often become very uncomfortable with change in our lives, especially as one grows older – your mileage may vary. From a spiritual standpoint, theologians have argued points of view for centuries as to whether we, having a free will, engineer and orchestrate every change or circumstance in our lives as God looks on, or those changes have been preordained of God and we are as puppets on a string, having little input in living out our scripted lives on an eternal stage. Both positions in my opinion can be extreme and I tend to believe that each has it’s place in the grand scheme of things. However I do not wish to use this forum as a Bully Pulpit to argue the merits of Calvin vs. Arminius. For me to attempt to do so would constitute a fool’s errand. My thinking here has a far more immediate and personal application – if for no other reason than we simply live in a changing world – and my world is changing.

In my last writing, Part 1, I spoke of being in my little aluminum fishing boat, tucked into a narrow inlet on a lake as an unexpected windstorm came up. In the words which follow, I will endeavor to draw some parallels from that day, then apply them. Please note this is not an attempt to communicate a self-help guide on adapting to change, but my own thoughts and experiences with things both seen – and unseen – regarding to the changing circumstances in which I have lived in the past, as well as those in which I currently find myself.

First, my plan.
I had spied out the inlet where I wanted to go fishing the day before and it looked to be idyllic. I had carefully laid out my gear that evening, stowing it in a place which would be easily accessible in the pre-dawn hours. I’d checked the fuel level in my boat’s gas tank, made sure the outboard motor was working correctly, and that my battery was adequately charged. In short, I was all set. Or so I thought.

Sometimes life gets in the way.
Although I’d planned my outing well, and had done my best to be certain that I’d covered any contingency, my morning on the lake turned out to be nothing like I had envisioned. I hadn’t expected to overheat – and wished I’d thought to bring along some shorts. When the wind came up, I learned that my anchor wasn’t big enough to hold the boat as the wind speed increased. Had I paid closer attention to the fishing line I’d cast into the water, it probably would not have snagged the lake’s bottom and snapped as the boat drifted. Had I considered the fact that I and my boat were protected from the wind on the main body of the lake by the hills surrounding the inlet, I’d have left at the first sign of changing weather and possibly avoided the tumultuous ride back to the docks. With the onset of each of these events, I was required to adapt to the changing circumstances in which I found myself. Lacking sufficient experience with sudden windstorms, I did not respond in a proactive way at the time. Believe me, should I ever face similar circumstances, I will likely fare much better.

It’s all about the details.
My point here is this; life happens in the otherwise mundane details of each day – not necessarily in the ‘big moments’, or during times of great indecision. It is in attending to those details, mixed with the experience one gains over time – often through adversity – that produces wisdom. I must confess here that years ago, I sadly allowed my heart to drift from God in significant ways and began to live for myself and my own indulgences. I have in the past few years, many times, made the singular decision to recommit my life, my purpose, my heart to God, then shrunk back. Why? Have you ever heard the saying, “The devil is in the details”? I have, and I frankly don’t like it because God’s revealed will is to be infinitely and intimately more involved in the details of my daily life. In retrospect, those so-called ‘big’ decisions I’d made to re-commit were no more than a nifty way to assuage the guilt and shame I continued to carry – because those decisions were not accompanied by a willingness to change.

It had been just after sunrise that I arrived at the inlet I’d chosen the day before. Twisting a switch on it’s cowling, the motor sputtered, then fell silent. Settling in, I had baited a hook, then cast my line into the ink-colored water. Although the morning had been quite cool, within a short time I’d begun to sweat. The combination of sunshine and still air prompted my mind to ponder the physics of the infrared portion of the solar-ray spectrum. I mused at how infrared rays do not rely upon a medium, such as air, to conduct the sun’s energy, but will heat any object they strike. That object, this morning, was me. Now fully exposed, I’d removed my jacket, donned sunglasses and a ball-cap to shield my eyes from the penetrating sun. Fishing would be slow going that morning. Who am I trying to kid? For me, fishing is almost always slow going.

After sitting awhile, taking in the pristine setting of which I was part, as I wondered just what my threshold for patience would be this morning I’d noticed that a soft puff of wind had momentarily cooled my skin. Then another. And another. Within a half hour or so a welcomed, gentle breeze had come up. The water no longer held the mirror-like reflection of the surrounding tree-covered hills. Now the lake’s surface was scalloped with tiny ripples, varying in size and direction according to the force of the air upon the water. I put my jacket back on, then dropped my boat’s anchor in an attempt to keep the rising wind from blowing my boat towards the shore of the narrow inlet. A few moments later, without warning a gust of wind sent the boat into a long rotating arc around the anchor line. My fishing hook evidently – and irretrievably – snagged on something on the lake’s bottom and my line snapped. Before I could finish reeling in the remaining line, the windswept boat reached the end of it’s arc – and anchor rope. Then it began to drag the lightweight anchor – and me – once more towards the shore. Acting quickly to avoid running aground, I switched the motor to the ‘On’ position, then yanked the starter rope which protruded from the front of the outboard motor. The engine spun to life.

I gathered the anchor and navigated to the center of the inlet, pointing the bow towards home… well, campsite. Breakfast this morning would be sans-trout. The once scalloped ripples on the water had intensified to a light chop, rhythmically slapping against the bow as I headed back. Unknown to me until I cleared the inlet, I’d been protected from the wind on the main body of the lake which now blew with force. My circa 1966 boat groaned as I struggled to steer – then hold – a course towards the docks. Now chilled – and getting colder – I managed to rifle through my belongings and found a hooded sweatshirt. It was then that I learned of the difference between finding and putting on a sweatshirt in the unyielding wind while trying to steer a boat in what had become very rough water. I finally prevailed and pulled the sweatshirt over my jacket. Then I lifted the hood up and over my ball-cap, tying it in such a way as to encircle my face, the bill of my cap protruding out from under the hood. White-capped waves now broke against – and over – the bow, sending copious amounts of water my way. I switched on the small electric bilge pump I’d recently installed to remove excess water from inside the boat and eventually made my way back. Once my boat had been securely tied to the dock, I walked back to camp, drenched and somewhat disgusted.
What had happened to my pristine morning, filled with the hope of a fresh catch and a delicious breakfast?

Now years later, as I have considered that morning on the lake many times, I have noted several parallels between it and the subject of change. Every now and then, I have this thing in my mind that just ends up being difficult to put into words. On top of that, when I have found the words and have been able to articulate my thoughts with a reasonable degree of logical progression and clarity (to me, anyway), some have concluded that I’m just a very trippy guy. Pardon the 1970’s vernacular. What can I say – they’re probably correct. That said, it is my hope, with the help of the preceding story as a metaphor, to make sense in my endeavor to, as one reader of this blog commented, synthesize my thoughts and feelings with regard to change in my own life – past, present, and my hope for the future – into words. The winds of change are indeed blowing in my life – in significant ways. ◊

Part 2 of 3 is HERE.

Thanksgiving was, all things considered, a joyous occasion. As I sat at the table in Lisa’s Mother’s house, surrounded by various family members, I mentioned that earlier in the day I’d thought of suggesting we set an extra place at the table in Jessica’s memory. Before I could explain that I’d immediately dismissed the thought, the room was filled with a combination of pained facial expressions and deep, visceral groans. Having the ability to be a bit clueless as to intuiting appropriate timing for commentary and topics for conversation, I was now kicking myself, “Boy-howdy do I ever know how to bring down a room.” My inner voice went into high gear. I did what I could to lift the atmosphere, some joined in expressing enthusiastic approval of this or that dish, others stating their disappointment with comments such as, “I’m never making that again. It sure looked better in the cook book than it tastes!” Soon the conversation had once more taken on a life of it’s own, all awkwardness disappeared. We had a fabulous meal.

Earlier, as I’d gone back in my mind to holidays past, I’d been thinking about how Jess could talk – I mean the girl could talk. I’d reflected on her ebullient spirit, the love she had for her family, how she loved the holidays. She’d eagerly anticipate seeing her younger cousins who’d likely spend part of each holiday with us. I thought of how she would intentionally wander into our livingroom and engage her Great Grandmother and Great Aunt in spirited conversation as the two elderly women sat together, warming themselves and dozing by the fireplace. How I loved those times when everyone was seated for dinner, a blessing had been asked, and we simply enjoyed being a family. No, remembering Jess by setting another place at the table for this holiday would not be a good idea because it simply wouldn’t seem like Jessica, if for no other reason than it would just be too quiet. Unlike my friend’s empty frame, in this case a silent reminder would not do.

In the time since we traveled to Gualala in November with Jessica’s husband Matt as he cast her ashes to the sea, I have sensed a rather profound shift in my grief-weary heart. I will stipulate up-front that the sorrow, intense at times, remains – and I’m doing my best to get through this first holiday season without her, as is the case with my family, extended family, and those closest to Jess. I guess to sum up, I find myself reflecting a little more upon Jessica’s life than dwelling upon her death these days. When I am longing for my girl, I seem to be dwelling a bit more on longing for the day I’ll be with her there instead of wishing she were with us here. Think about it. We often spend our lives pursuing longevity, amassing ‘stuff’, living in the expectation that each day shall be as the last, often feeling cheated or angry when poverty, tragedy, failing health, harsh circumstances and the like befall us. I do not think these pursuits are necessarily wrong, yet our lives are so very short in light of eternity and if that’s all there is to living upon this earth, how woefully we set ourselves up for a painful, hope-less existence while here.

Imagine with me for a moment what Jessica’s perspective is – at this minute. As one who believes the Bible to be God’s truth, then accordingly Jessica’s existence is beautiful beyond any of our wildest thoughts or imaginations. To live in the very presence of the One who took our every imperfection to the cross. To see and touch the scars in His hands. To experience His love in a tangible and present sense. Tears well up as I write – yet in that place they shall be wiped away by God Himself. How beautiful and how glorious are God’s promises, how real the ones pertaining to heaven have become to me as I contemplate Christmas this year, and beyond. Yes, there shall be another place set at the table for Jessica, but not here. This year she is dining with the King. ◊