by jphilo | Nov 15, 2013 | Family
The call came last week. Lois Benson, Mom’s oldest sister, had died. She’d been failing for several months, so the news wasn’t unexpected. But it was unwanted by those of us left behind. But I suspect, as do others who loved her, that Lois was not sad to go. Not after enduring cruel losses in her immediate family.
The loss of her son Gary shortly after his high school graduation.
The loss of her son, Vernie, who was a young husband and the father of 3 little girls.
The loss of her husband Ivar in the 1990s.
The loss of her great-grandson Spencer a few years ago.
Gary died when I was five, and her sad smile laces my early memories of this dear woman. Her smile grew achingly, heart wrenchingly sad seven years later when Vernie died. But this is what I will always remember about Aunt Lois: though the smiles grew more fleeting and rare with each loss, she never stopped smiling.
When she talked about her faith, she smiled hopefully.
When she talked about her hobbies, handiwork and baking (if you never tasted one of Aunt Lois’s pies or traditional Norwegian baked treats, you are to be pitied), her smile was animated and bright.
When she talked about the accomplishments of her living children and her grandchildren, she positively beamed.
Today, as our family gathers together to say good-bye to Lois Benson, we will all be hoping and imagining the reunion:
Aunt Lois smiling without a hint of sadness.
Rejoicing to see Gary, Vernie, Ivar, and Spencer once again.
Her Savior leaning down to wipe her tears away.
Her faith fulfilled. Her hope secured.
Oh, Aunt Lois, we will miss you. But knowing you are home again makes us smile…but sadly.
And He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.
Revelation 21: 4
by jphilo | Oct 20, 2011 | Daily Life
Fall is progressing with alarming speed. In one short week, the green underbrush along our gravel road has developed a yellow cast. The ditches are clogged with leaves, and on warm days the Asian beetles, homeless since the farmers harvested the soybeans, are everywhere.
Change is in the air, and I don’t like it. The worst change of all was a recent announcement by a couple we’ve grown close to in the past five years. He’s accepted a job in Texas and will be moving within the month. She’ll finish out the school year and join him next spring. My head knows this is a necessary move for them. Circumstances leave no doubt of God’s hand in these events.
But my heart is shouting, “Don’t go, don’t go,” to this couple who have been an example and support to Hiram and me. They lead our small church group. They went through discipleship training with me. They encouraged me when I left teaching to start writing. She brought meals after I had surgery. He mowed our lawn when Hiram donated a kidney and helped cut down some big trees in our yard.
When we were devastated by Allen’s decision to become a monk, they asked to be put on the monastery’s mailing list. They cared about us so much they wanted to learn about our son’s world. Their loving act was exactly what we needed, and it still brings me to tears.
Now they’re moving away, and instead of kicking and screaming like I want to, I have to be mature. I have to think of how the changes in their lives are bigger than the ones in mine right now. How hard this must be for them to leave her family and their college-aged daughters behind. How difficult to say good-bye to their church and friends. So many unknowns face them. Can they find a house? Will they find a church they like? Will she find a job in her field?
They didn’t want this move any more than we wanted Allen to enter a monastery. Still it happened, and it’s finally our turn to support them. I need to learn about their new world and help them adjust to it. I’m not sure where or how to start. But we’ve had some wonderful friends as examples. If I think about what they’ve done for us, I’ll get some great ideas. And be moved to tears.
