It has been a few months since the last blog post. The same lapse in words happened for about the same space of time, in 2020. And it was for the same reasons.

As difficult as 2020 was, 2021 has “one-upped” it in every way, in my life. That’s saying a lot, seeing as 2020 brought the loss of my father. (I taught at a beautiful artist’s retreat, at Eagle Rock Retreat Center, three days after my father’s funeral.)

This year, I lost my “best girl”. We were best friends since high school.

Two weeks after speaking at her Celebration of Life, in late October, I taught again at that same beautiful artist’s retreat.

I will never understand the way that life really does go on.

In April of this year, my precious friend Melissa received the devastating diagnosis of advanced pancreatic cancer. She fought hard and well, for months. I had the profound privilege, in a very simple way, of “walking her home”.

I can’t lie - as wholeheartedly as I prayed for her complete healing, I had to admit to myself that the spiritual atmosphere around her felt thin and yet weighted with glory on our short bi-weekly visits in her home, whenever she felt well enough between chemo treatments.

Looking back, I wonder if I will replay those conversations in my mind until I see her again in heaven.

How do you hold down a conversation with someone who already has the light of eternity on their face?

We mostly talked of everyday things. As best as I could tell, that seemed to comfort and cheer her the most. Or did it comfort and cheer me the most? I’m afraid I’ll never know the actual answer. We watched the hummingbirds visit her feeders, we talked of our love for flowers, and even laughed about a few things.

We did speak of eternity and friendship and family and our regrets in life - but not as much or as often as you might think.

It is with a deep sigh that I wrap my mind around my losses. Twice, in less than a year, I have walked someone I dearly love home to heaven. Twice, in less than one year, I also had clear, advanced notice that heaven was imminent for someone I adored, unless there was a miracle.

Still, in both instances, we always mostly talked of ordinary things. And it felt right. Because…well, because heaven was imminent. The hope of heaven is as solid and real as the sunrise.

In 2020, with my dad, we watched old John Wayne movies. Only once did he want to discuss a serious memory. One day, he did mention something that took place between us many years ago: he didn’t like my choice in a husband, once upon a time. Though he did walk me down the aisle that November evening in 1986, he had asked to have the part in the ceremony removed that said, “Who gives this bride in marriage?”

Because, in his mind, I was making my own choice - one with which he did not agree.

Obviously, he was wrong. And he had apologized to me several times over the ensuing years, and every time I had told him that all was forgiven.

But he wanted to hear it from me one last time. And got to be there to look into his eyes and assure him that the thought of it never crossed my mind anymore - ever. Everything had been that thoroughly forgiven - so much so, as to be quite literally forgotten. I earnestly said to him, “Dad. I really never even think about it. Ever. It is like it never happened.”

His voice shook with emotion, and he thanked me.

And that was that. Otherwise, all of our conversations were of everyday things. Mostly, I often watched him nod off to one of those John Wayne movies.

Real life has a way of being surreal, and not at all like any book you’ve ever read.

Because alongside the biggest losses of my life so far, there are the biggest harvests.

The Preacher and I celebrated 35 years of marriage this week, and I need somebody to know: I was all there. (Thank you, Melissa….thank you. You didn’t realize it, but you were my teacher.)

I was fully present to every bit of it. This enneagram 5, always-up-in-my-head wife was wholeheartedly engaged. I was in my body, and savoring joy. I could feel, down deep to the marrow, the gift that I have in my marriage, in my family, my grand children, my church, my art…

…I sense that finally, after years of committed practice, I have learned how to easily, naturally, “love what is mine”.

The long obedience in one direction that comes with cherishing what has been given to me, as it has been given to me, without wishing any of it to be one bit different than it is, is reaping a staggering harvest of blessing.

It is well with my soul. All is more than enough. Every gesture of love and friendship that comes my way, feels like grace upon grace. I’m living a dream I have not earned and do not deserve.

I don’t need “change for the sake of change”.

I don’t need to compare myself to anyone - not my burdens, not my blessings. All of it, grief and glory, has made me who I am.

More and more (and more), I am getting to know the Holy Spirit as “Comforter”.