Now That You've Gone Home

The hand of God is usually unexpected—that’s how you know it’s His Hand. Well that’s been my experience anyway.

His trademark is quiet surprise: the friend who is standing in front of you just when you desperately need her; finding something you weren’t looking for but have been missing for months; the package arriving in the mail from someone you barely know.

Such was the case with this book and another sent by Julie Cragon over at Hand Me Down Heaven. One day I came home from work to discover I had two books from a ‘friend’ I didn’t know I had. Julie had gone to a book convention and she bought me this book and The Four Teresas, which I’ve loaned to another friend and have yet to read.

Now That You’ve Gone Home is a sweet, gentle book. It enfolds the grieving spirit like a warm comforter in a bright sunny room. I imagine myself reading it at a friend’s house who lives out in the country with floor-to-ceiling picture windows on both sides and a fire dancing before me. A white winter sky flecked with the bright color of birds flocking to the feeder. Snow drifted outside, yet I am cozy and snug, drinking a mug of something delicious, further soothed by the words of the kindest of spirit guides, Joyce Hutchison and Joyce Rupp.

Both authors have experienced profound tragedies in their own lives but it is from the anguish of their losses that their deep compassion blooms.

It is the book I wish I'd had when my brother died 19 years ago. It’s the book I will recommend to anyone now who loses someone dear. It begins with short chapters relating Joyce Hutchinson’s journey through the dark days after her husband’s death. Reading it brought out tenderness toward my own dear spouse I wish I practiced every minute of every day. It was a reminder of the brevity and preciousness of this life—ours and those we love.

After Joyce’s stories, the book moves on to a collection of other stories from parents, children, siblings, persons married and single, from all walks of life and how each dealt with the death of loved ones. There was every kind of death imaginable from old age to suicide to illness to horrible accident, as well as many different responses and coping methods on the part of those grieving. Each story chapter concluded with a meditation, prayer and affirmation for the day.

I can hardly imagine a better resource to give someone struggling with the aftermath of personal loss except—of course—a devoted friend and constant prayer.

Thank you Julie for your generous gifts! You blessed my life; may yours be blessed as well.

Ten "Things" Mom Wants For Christmas

My younger daughter told me last night I’m the hardest one in the family to buy gifts for. I laughed and said that’s probably because I have everything I want. She looked at me like I have seven heads. Okay, sure, I would like to get my favorite recliner reupholstered and new carpeting for the front room, but such mundane someday-they-would-be-nice-es aside, I’m probably the most contented person I know, so far as THINGS go. I don’t want any more things.

What I value most in my life right now are the people I love and the time I get to spend with them. I can never get enough of both of those. So keeping that in mind, dearest offspring, here are some ideas of what mama bear would like from her cubs for Christmas.

1. Read any Jane Austen book and then plan a “Jane Junket” where we watch the mini-series corresponding to that book (actually we have two!) and maybe even take in the additional movies, “Becoming Jane” and “The Jane Austen Book Club”. I know this would involve a lot of time but you have Christmas vacation coming up and you did ask what I wanted. ☺

2. Take me out to lunch. I don’t care where we go or what we eat, how many coupons you use, what the specials are, or how cheap the meal is, so long as you don’t look at your watch, we have a nice leisurely meal where I can drink coffee and we can talk about nothing and everything and not be in a hurry … !

3. Invite me to have a pajama party with you and your sister. You may even invite over one of your friends that I call my third daughter (you know the girls I mean). Let me hang out with you, watch movies, decorate cupcakes, eat ice cream, tell ghost stories, get my hair done and pretend I’m girl again. Maybe you'll be surprised to find out how fun your mom can be!

4. Surprise me by showing up at my office one day during the holidays. You don’t have to bring lunch or even help me do any work. Just drop by and see how I am. If you stayed for a short visit, it would be heaven.

5. Go to Mass with me one day during the week without me asking. That’s it.

6. Run away for a day to someplace neither of us has ever been to before.

7. Spend the afternoon/morning at Barnes and Noble. Find a book we both like which there are two copies of. Find comfy chairs near each other and speed read it. Then over café mocha or hot chocolate talk about it.

8. Just hang out with me some Friday or Saturday night. With the Christmas tree up, we can talk, play a game, try out a new recipe, work 3D puzzles, walk around the neighborhood and look at the lights, or do something else which you think up.

9. Get out our book and start writing in it again. Tell me something about yourself you have never told me before.

10. You! You are the very best gift to me. Decide how to ‘package’ yourself. By that I mean, you figure out a fun thing we can do together.

These are some ideas. I hope they help.

I want to be with you. I want to see you, hear you, enjoy your company and know that you are safe and well. I want you to be good, wise, upright, kind and true. I want you to know, love and serve God in this life so that we may all live together with Him in eternity.

I want the same thing for Christmas Mary wanted: God’s Will for my child. May He bless you this Christmas!

forgetting what lies behind

Have you ever had a conversation with someone which was so good you were torn between hanging on every word and wanting to grab a pen or a tape recorder so that you could capture every word?

I just had such a conversation. I don’t want to forget it, but already so much of it is slipping away from memory. It was more than the meeting of minds or hearts—although it certainly was that—it was the communion of two souls. After Mass today I very much wanted to tell a lady from our parish who I know and like, but don’t know as well as I’d like to know, that I really appreciated her rendering of the Second Reading from Philippians. It’s a difficult selection and she is a superb lector, but today I could hear the Holy Spirit speaking through St. Paul’s words and her voice. It was a God moment.

Before I had a chance to tell her what I thought about her lectoring, we started talking about women, our need to give, the importance and gift of being able to receive, and special women we both know. Then in a very natural way, the conversation turned to the loss of her husband four years ago and her subsequent walk with grief.

This was not one of those conversations with a woman looking for sympathy. Rather it was the shared insight from a truly Wise Woman.

The husband she described sounded very much like my own husband—a wonderful man, loving, considerate, generous, hard-working, always thinking of others before himself. He used to take care of everything around the house, from doing the grocery shopping to scrubbing the bathroom floors. After he died, she would find herself on her knees scrubbing the floors crying ... thinking ... remembering. There are some things in the past which shouldn’t be forgotten.

But when he died she found her real spiritual work began. She needed to learn to develop in areas which she didn’t even know existed, where he’d been strong for her. It was this inner strength, this holy wisdom, this deep spirituality which I heard when she lectored. I drank it in.

I thought too about my own dear husband and felt a moment of panic, sheer terror actually, as I thought of my own potentially impending future, a time to come without him. What would I do? How could I go on?

She spoke of kind people—dear friends—wanting so desperately to help her in her bereavement and how she helped them in allowing them to help her. We both had tears in our eyes and few spilled over as well. She apologized to me! I felt privileged and honored that she would share her story with me.

We talked about judgments and she said how we are all taught to judge everything, from the weather, to people, to situations. But what a different perspective if instead of judging we choose to look at everything as an opportunity from God to grow. “What do you want me to gain from this O LORD?” And she said oh so much more…

Finally I did get to tell her how much I enjoyed and benefited from hearing her lector today, but by the time I did, I had already gained so much more, well … anyway, it made her happy. And for that LORD, I am truly grateful!

‘Remember not the events of the past,
the things of long ago consider not;
see, I am doing something new!’

Two 'Daughters of the Month'

There’s no such thing as a ‘perfect’ family. There are however moments in the life of a family when things happen which make you realize how blessed you are to be a member in something larger than yourself. It’s humbling and exciting at the same time.

My husband and I have always been very proud of our daughters. They are both smart and talented, but more importantly, they have always been good kids—again not ‘perfect’ but dependable, honest, hard-working and nice girls.

We’ve been proud of their accomplishments, such as good grades, piano recitals, Tae Kwon Do belts and various sundry awards, but we’ve been even more impressed by those things they do which never gain them any recognition. For example, Bear can never forget how proud he was of Michelle in a race where she came in dead last—but she never quit running. And for me, one of Meg’s finest moments was when she kept going back to break a board time after time after time even though her hand was hurting, her knuckles were bruised and tears of frustration were streaming down her cheeks. Eventually the instructor–a black belt—discovered the wood was too hard even for him to break and he gave her a lighter piece of wood. She broke it, sore hand and all.

However, even these poignant memories pale when I think about the girls’ relationship, how they get along, continue to stick up for each other, love, and even like each other—most of the time anyway. So many siblings grow up with an intense dislike of one another; they fight constantly. Meg and Michelle have been best friends for most of their lives ... and still are.

Tonight was a good example. My younger daughter, Michelle, came in bringing the October issue of their high school newspaper, Titan Talk. “Here,” she said. “Meg is on the front page,” she showed me where her sister was pictured with her escort as the Cross Country Princess in the Carl Albert Homecoming Court. “And here she is again, ‘Female Athlete of the Month’. I figured I’d better tell you and get you a copy of the paper because Meg would never tell you. I’ll pick up some more copies for you tomorrow so you can send them to people. I can get them at the Library.”

Now I ask you, is that a generous sister or is that a generous sister? I didn’t know who I was more proud of at that moment: Meg for her athletic accomplishment or Michelle for her thoughtfulness. Truthfully, I was unspeakably proud of both girls—proud and humbled at the same time.

In September, Meg became a National Merit Semi-finalist and was recognized as an AP (Advanced Placement) Scholar with Honor, which means she received at least 3.25 on all AP exams taken and scores of 3 or higher on four or more of these exams. In fact, she got 5’s on three out of the four AP tests she has taken so far: AP European History—5; AP U.S. History (Independent Study)—5; AP English III—5; AP Chemistry—3. She is taking five more AP courses this year.

Besides her academics, Meg has won five medals in Cross Country so far this year and just placed, along with the entire Carl Albert girl’s team, to run at State this coming week-end.

As I write this, Meg is practicing her piano. Michelle just returned home. After she said hello to me, her first words were to her sister, “Did you know you were ‘Athlete of the Month’?”

Thank you God for letting me know, love and play a role in the lives of these wonderful young women. It is an honor and a privilege to be their mother. Please dear Lord continue to watch over and protect them.

Gold Star Religion

‘Religion that is pure and undefiled before God and the Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their affliction and to keep oneself unstained by the world.’ ~~James 1:27


Have you ever noticed how life imitates Scripture? Or do I mean to say, have you ever noticed how when you hear – or read – something in the Bible, you are reminded of an example of it—either good or bad—in your own life?

Does that ever happen to you?

It happens to me all the time.

Usually, I am reminded of someone I love, or admire, who lives out the positive exhortation, the Gospel command. Most often, that ‘someone’ is my husband, the Godliest man I know.

Last night at Mass when we heard that lovely definition of pure and undefiled religion, I thought of my Bear the afternoon 21 years ago almost to the day when he came home to our little German apartment sweaty, dirty, and distraught beyond words, trying to communicate the horror he had just witnessed at the worst air show disaster ever.

He had done what he could for the injured, the dying, the terrified and their rescuers. It hadn’t been enough. It took him months before he could sleep again without nightmares—and he knew how blessed he was. We both did.

A little over a year ago, a B-52, Raider 21, went down just off Guam with all crew lost. The B-52 Stratofortress, the “Buff” – as it’s been affectionately nicknamed by those associated with it – has one of the safest flying records of all the airplanes in the United States Air Force. It was the last aircraft I was privileged to work with while I was still on active duty and it’s my favorite of all. It’s old, 40’s technology, brought into the inventory even before I was born in 1955, but reliable. So when we learned about Raider 21 going down on 21 July 2008, it felt like a family loss. Even though my husband is now retired from the Air Force, he still works on and with issues involving the B-52’s. He knows the history of most of the planes, the aircrew, missions and other bits of minutiae that would put an aviation trivia expert to shame. He’s been to the USAF Aircraft Accident Investigation School and he followed the investigation of this mishap with his usual micro precision. In tribute to the men who died and recognition of their sacrifice, Bear painted the above picture and had prints made.

Fast-forward a year. Last month, I overheard a colleague mention to our supervisor she was still trying to get out of jury duty so that she could fly to Guam for an Air Force ceremony in honor of her son. I kept eavesdropping. This sweet, reserved woman, some years senior to me doesn’t speak often. She's always there to lend a hand, has a ready smile but goes her own quiet way. I learned her son had been on Raider 21 and died last year—her only son.

I told Bear. I knew he’d want to help. He knows a lot of people. He started making some phone calls and pretty soon, she was off jury duty and on her way to Guam.

Last night, Bear and I had the distinct pleasure of taking that lovely Gold Star Mom out for dinner. We didn’t know a lot about her before the night began, but we learned that she’s been a widow for many years now. Up until his death, her son was her best friend, yet she didn’t whine, complain or bemoan her fate. She shared her pictures of the trip with us, told us how lovely everyone had treated her and her father, and all the other surviving family members from Raider 21. She was gracious, eager to tell us about her son and his children, but also wanted to hear all about our Air Force experiences. Even the restaurant we tentatively suggested, she said, was her favorite and one she’d go to her by herself just for the food, she liked it so much. Was she just being nice? Maybe, but I don’t think so. I think she’s just one of those genuinely good souls.

Later she showed us the home her son had bought her. She was very proud of it—and him. She still didn’t have a lot of things on her walls, but we saw the print of my husband’s Raider 21 painting and her Gold Star Mom banner.

I can say I have met a Gold Star Mom. She really is Gold Star all the way.

And so is my Bear. At one point, this bereaved mother asked about the body of her son, which the authorities had recommended her not view. My husband got a little choked up when he explained a few things to her, but she remained calm, and she said she appreciated his technical explanations.

As I reread St. James’ definition above, I see the world’s ‘staining’ not so much as sin—because we all sin while we walk this earth—but as becoming embittered by the horrors we encounter. My dear husband has seen things which make him cry, strong man though he is, yet he is able to rise above his own pain and help widows and orphans in their affliction. I am his witness. May God bless and preserve him in this life and reward him richly in the next.

Happy Mother's Day!

I used to evaluate, rank or rate my holidays, i.e., try to determine if they were better than previous ones. As I’ve gotten older, for better or worse – and it really doesn’t matter which – I don’t do that anymore. Now instead I’ve learned to use special days as opportunities to count my blessings. Today I had so many I lost track.

For starters there are my own dear mothers: the dear lady who gave birth to and raised me in the Catholic faith and the other special lady who bore and lovingly brought up my husband. I call them both, “Mom” and I love them beyond words. I am twice blessed in their love and in the wonderful men they've been married to for over fifty years each, my two “Dad”s.

Then there’s the man who made me it possible for me to become a mother, the most profound vocation and life-changing event which has ever happened to me. Thank you Bear, for our two beautiful daughters, and for the gift of your love, fidelity, and friendship through these many years.

Which brings me to our own dear children, the two most beautiful young ladies—inside and out—I know. This week they were both inducted in the National Honor Society (NHS). Our older daughter, Meg, will be President of the Carl Albert High School NHS next year. Michelle performed in her Spring Concert this past week; she amazed me with her talent! And Meg attended her own school’s prom with her friends; she enjoyed herself very much.

If all these blessings were enough, I got to spend the day with my entire family and talk to all four parents as well. Last night I went to Mass with my husband and Michelle and today I went again with Meg. In front of us today at Mass there was a young family with three children, the youngest of which was the most delightful blonde-haired little boy with Down’s syndrome. He was affectionate, sweet, well-behaved and so cute it almost hurt to look at him. It was also obvious he was the delight of his family. As I watched the little boy hugging and kissing his bigger brother, I couldn’t help but think of this video I’d recently watched called, What Do These People Have In Common?

It’s been a lovely overcast misty day spent quietly doing nothing in particular. I am most abundantly blessed. Thank You God for everything! May this little branch forever be attached to Your True Vine!

May all the mothers everywhere have a very happy and blessed Mother's Day!

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The Chess Set

When my only brother died—on the 6th of November 1991—he was only 29 years old and in good health, so his accidental death caught everyone by surprise. My oldest daughter, Meg, had just been born the month before. My baby sister, Julie, got married at the end of that strange and dark November. It was supposed to be a happy time for all of us; instead it was a time of extreme emotions and staggering stress.

Somehow we all got through it, although I don’t exactly remember the time clearly, only bits and pieces. I remember that Meg’s colicky screaming fits no longer bothered me after Mike’s death. I’d just hold her and cry along with her. When it came time for me to return from maternity leave to my ‘exciting’ Air Force job, Chief of the Barksdale Command Post, I had no taste for it anymore. It pained me to leave Meg in child care each day and I suddenly realized how all the rest of my life had suffered because of my total dedication to my career.

I had scarcely seen my brother a half dozen times in the past 10 years—and he was the person, after my husband--I felt closest too?! After Mike’s funeral I went with my father and sisters several times to Mike’s house, looking, searching through his things. I didn’t want any of them. I even wondered at stories I’d read and heard about people fighting over the deceased person’s possessions. How could they? I loved my brother fiercely but I wanted none of his things.

My Dad kept trying to interest me in Mike’s books (I love books!) or his CD’s but I could only muster a half-hearted glance at a few things before my eyes misted over and I wanted to scream, “I don't want any of his things! I WANT MY BROTHER!!!!!!” But I stifled this desire. Even in this state of raw and self-centered emotion, I recognized my Dad’s sorrow as deeper and purer than my own.

I was at Mike’s house to help sort and bundle his things to be given away to various charitable organizations, but I doubt I was any help to anybody. I just kept wandering around, not really seeing, crying every once in awhile, confused and lost. If I thought about God at all, it was more with bitterness and anger than as a source of comfort and compassion. After all, hadn’t God taken my brother? Wasn’t this terrible pain His fault? What kind of cruel God would poison the joy of the birth of the first child (for me) and grandchild (for my parents) with death? And what about Julie’s wedding? How would she be able to enjoy her special day, with this cloud of sorrow hanging over her head? No, God had deserted us, at best; was punishing us at worst. But while I had turned away from God, I allowed myself to recognize and empathize with those around me. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Eventually I did stumble across something among my brother's effects which did arouse my interest—letters and pictures. Mostly they were letters he’d received, but there were a few he’d written (including one to me) and not sent. I had something tangible to hang on to. My dad indicated Meg’s birth announcement which was proudly displayed on a shelf. “I don’t want it back!” I thought. Or did I say it?

Then Dad brought me a ceramic chess set which I’d made for Mike 10 years back. It was still in the same shoe box wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Had he even used it? This was too much.

“No!” I said firmly, “I don’t want it!” No one in the family, besides Mike, played chess so one of my sisters started to take it to put in the discard/give away pile.

“No!” Dad said, equally firmly, “we’ll keep it.” Dad was feeling sentimental too, I thought. He never saved anything that wasn’t useful. He’d been very adept at pitching anything and everything. Nostalgia was not a consideration in our family--if you weren't using it, you got rid of it. The Donovans were practical folk.

Nothing more was said. I left Mike’s house that day with 3 children’s books (for Meg), 2 CDs, a small electronic keyboard and a box of letters and pictures. Not much to show for 29 years of life, but it was more than I wanted even so.

A year later I gave birth to my second daughter and named her Michelle after her much beloved uncle. During those brief and busy months, I’d started to pray again and was beginning to turn to God, occasionally. God was no longer ‘the enemy’ but I still regarded Him with suspicion and well-founded (so I thought!) mistrust. If I could have defined my concept of my LORD in those days, I think I viewed Him as an angry storm which comes, destroys everything and then leaves, allowing His poor creatures to rebuild their pitiful lives—only to live in fear and suspicion, nervously awaiting another vengeful visit. I prayed in those days to placate God, in the hopes that He’d leave me alone.

But I had abandoned my Air Force career and devoted all my waking hours (which were many) to my husband and daughters. In time, I came to realize that Mike’s death—even more so than Meg’s birth—was a pivotal point in my life. Many women abandon successful careers when their first or second child comes along. But with 13 years in the AF, I hadn’t intended to quit when I was so close to the retirement finish line. And I wasn’t altogether sure I wanted any more children. If I only had Meg, I could give everything to her, couldn’t I? Everything that is, but a sibling… And didn’t Mike’s death teach me how precious that relationship could be?

In the ensuing years, death continued to be a wake-up call for me. Two uncles, two aunts, my last grandparent, several friends, and people my husband worked with. Each death—strangely—refocused my life, my vision of life and my relationship with God. My daughters grew and as I got to know them, I learned to love all over again. God became very real, very close and a good friend. I still didn’t begin to understand Him, but a 1000 little things each day pointed to His love for me and mine: Michelle’s beautiful singing and Meg’s love for horses; their hugs, chatter, giggles, pictures, pranks, and delightful games; the love and strong faith of the girls’ four grandparents; teaching Meg and Michelle to read; watching them become ardent readers like their mom and uncle; my husband’s patience and support; family reunions and weddings; rediscovering the richness of our faith heritage when I began to homeschool; prayer groups; trips around Washington state, Oklahoma and back to visit family; dear friends; visiting the sick from church etc. My life was so different from what it had been when all my time and energy were devoted to success in my career. I had rediscovered family, values and my relationship with our loving and very intimate Heavenly Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Life was very good and very full. As most children do, the girls begged for stories and I told them every story I could remember about my brother and my sisters, Patti and Julie. I think I can say—without boasting—that I kept Michael alive in their memories. And each year when Mike’s bday came around I baked a cake and the girls eagerly joined me in singing “Happy Birthday Uncle Mike” and feasting on chocolate cake—because the girls were sure that was his favorite cake. And when the anniversary of his death came—eventually—I was able to celebrate that day too, although in a quieter and more personal communion with my ‘little brother’.

But as the years slipped by, I began to lose the feeling of Mike’s presence. It almost seemed that as the pain lessened, so did the strength and power of the memories. I couldn’t picture his face (in my mind) or recall his voice without getting out his picture and staring at it. His picture hung over Michelle’s bed and I had others scattered around the house, but they became lifeless. Strange as it sounds, I found myself missing the sharp pang I used to feel when I thought about missing him! Am I losing him, God? My faith taught me he was safe and pain free with the Lord or perhaps still undergoing the necessary purgation in preparation for that glorious reunion. I refused to believe he was damned. He wasn’t perfect, but he was so dearly beloved by so many people when he died, I just knew he hadn’t turned his back definitely on God, so I had Faith and Hope. In keeping with our Roman Catholic tradition, my family and friends prayed and offered Masses and sacrifices for the salvation of his soul and those of others we loved. But, I couldn’t help wondering, if Mike isn’t lost, why do I feel like I’m losing him?

As Meggie’s First Communion approached, I confided this fear to a dear friend. Michael was Meg’s Godfather and I wished fervently that he could sit with our family in church and witness the joy of this occasion. Briefly I did feel that old familiar ache but my renewed faith told me that Mike would be with us in spirit. It was enough, I told myself sensibly. But even so, I admitted my true feelings to my friend. She assured me with confidence and wisdom that Michael would be at Meg’s Communion as he was with me in a very real way every day. Yes, I agreed and I offered a little prayer of thanksgiving to God for my friend and my brother.

Two weeks before the day, I came up behind Michelle at the computer playing chess. “Wow!” I said, “I didn’t know you could play chess.” I was impressed—not bad for a 7 year old, I thought.

“Yes,” she answered ambivalent of my praise, “but I don’t like playing it on the computer because the computer always wins. Meg and I want to play each other and then the game will be more fair.” “Meg can play too?!” I was really surprised. Meg shares my dislike of anything mechanical, especially computers.

“She likes chess too, but doesn’t like playing with the computer either,” Michelle assured me. That I could believe.

“Too bad,” I mused, “I don’t remember what we did with that chess set…”

“You have a chess set?!” Michelle’s eyes lighted up and she gave me her full attention.

“I made one for Uncle Mike years ago, but I can’t remember what happened to it. I’ll ask Grandma if she still has it. Don’t get your hopes up; it was a long time ago and Grandma and Paw Paw (my parents) don’t keep things around if they aren’t being used.”

“But you will ask them right?” Michelle asked with serious and earnest eagerness.

“Yes, I’ll ask,” I promised. But no, my mom said we’d gotten rid of the chess set years ago at a family garage sale. Not to worry I told the girls, “Daddy and I will get you a chess set for your birthday or Christmas.” The girls’ faces fell with disappointment.

Again, I was surprised. I was with them every day, but since our computer was in a back room, I didn’t realize how much they’d played chess. All I knew was their computer wasn’t connected to the Internet and I’d checked out all the software on it. And they were required to ‘play’ with the computer 30 minutes a day.

The day before the First Communion I chanced to check my email and there was a message from my Mom. “Guess what? Julie has the chess set. She’ll bring it down tomorrow.” I couldn’t believe it. After all these years…

The next day arrived and our house was a flurry with out-of-town relatives from Missouri, Indiana and Kansas. Everyone arrived safely and our house was a buzz with doorbells, laughter, hugs, phone ringing and all the sounds of familiar voices. My sister Julie arrived with her husband and two sons. I marveled over the fact that if not for a scheduling conflict, we would have had Meg’s First Communion in May and Julie wouldn’t have been able to come. I remembered how flustered I’d been at the time, wondering how I’d be able to secure a week-end acceptable to most (if not all) of our family. My husband, Rod, reminded me to turn things over to the LORD. I had and now He was showing me His magnificent Love and Grace.

Michelle came up to me and motioned for me to lean down for a whispered confidence. “Did Aunt Julie remember the chess set?” I smiled at her and whispered back, “I don’t know but I’ll ask her.” I did and Julie jumped to her feet and went back outside. A few moments later she brought in a very old-looking shoe box with the words, “Chess Set - $8” written in my handwriting on the top of the box.

“That’s pretty bad,” I joked, “We couldn’t even sell it for $8.” But my words were lost in the excitement of Meg and Michelle digging out the pieces from yellowed newspaper.

“I’m glad you didn’t sell it,” Meg said emphatically and I began to see the whole scene in a new light—the still fresh light of her innocent and hopeful 8 year old eyes. Soon all the pieces were unwrapped, the girls had dug out an old checkers' board and were happily absorbed in a fast-paced game of chess.

As I sat back watching them, I thought of my friend’s words about Mike being with us on this day. I marveled at the appearance of the chess set on the exact day of Meg’s First Communion, a chess set I’d seen perhaps twice in the past 20 years, the only thing I ever made for my brother. A feeling came over me I can’t quite explain, but it was more real than the black and white pieces in front of me.

“How did you manage it Mike?” I wondered silently. How indeed? It was too strange, too unreal, too coincidental… “You are here, aren’t you Little Brother,” I thought and the ache in my heart was as sharp as it had ever been. And I knew how he ‘managed it’. It wasn’t a coincidence; it was a God-incidence.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of conversation, prayer, photos and hugs. It was a wonderful day—too full to visit with each of our guests as I’d have liked to do, but a nice time even so. After church, dinner at a local restaurant and coming back to our house for cake and coffee, eventually the day came to an end and we were saying ‘good night’ to those of our guests who weren’t staying with us. As my uncle and aunt, who live in Kansas, were getting into their car, I heard my mom call out, “Good night Little Brother” and he called back, “Good night Big Sister” and it seemed as if Mike was talking to me. It was the way Mike and I had always addressed each other, although I do not remember ever hearing my mom and her brother address each other that way before.

Good night Little Brother. I look forward to seeing you again someday! Thank You Heavenly Father for letting Mike join us—in a special way on this special day.