on preparation, and smirking

 If there’s a left turn coming, I want to be in the left lane as early as possible. 

Some of my kids mirror this- one teases me and purposely stresses me out when he drives. He coaches me like an amateur therapist, talks me through it like I have irrational anxiety, like it’s good for me to practice sitting in discomfort and learning that I’m still ok. (I do, and it is.)

My husband also has this certain face when he knows I’m spinning my wheels, and I saw it at the dinner table this week when we were talking about moving details. It’s like he knows when the drive to “get ahead of it” or “be prepared” doesn’t really matter and it’s not possible and yet I chase it anyways.  He just knows when I'm being driven by a fear motor, and he won’t get on the train with me. He stays steady on the ground with a slightly amused expression and lets me tire myself out.

(If I see him smirking at this stage I might cry, so he holds his face carefully.)

------

This summer I shared a canoe with my daughter, one who also likes to be in the right lane ahead of time.  It was pretty stressful for us, especially because we didn’t know what turns were coming, and never once would the current let us “get ahead of it” or “be prepared” early.

And there was my husband, having a good ‘ol time, and smirking at the way the river kept harassing our desire to be in control.

We relaxed eventually. It helped me to put words to the fear, and then notice that the water really wasn’t very deep, and even if we were in the wrong “lane” it would probably be ok. We hit a few logs, terrified some wood ducks, and we watched a couple other people flip over, and everybody was still ok.

The river, whenever it did fork, never warned us. 

And yet it was usually just a gentle placement of the oar, at the right time,  that was needed for us to follow.

---

Today, I am trying to just breathe, just live right here in the part of the river where I am. Up ahead are a thousand decisions to make, bends in the river to navigate, even forks where we must choose. But none of them can be navigated ahead of time. I can only breathe and show up for this one Friday. 

and look around while I’m here. 

first, He takes

 If you’re reading this, he’s said yes to the call.

(again!)

---

How am I doing? 

Sometimes I’m confident, hopeful and settled;

Other times I feel like I’m being gutted like a fish.

I think this is our next right thing. And it is hard. 

------

God takes what you give Him and multiplies it.
But first, He takes. 

And there is a waiting, an empty-handed uncertainty, in between.

Where you hold hope

and heartache, too. 

That’s where I am right now. 

I am, in some ways, reliving the story that God wrote in Feb 2018, when we came to this place.

It helps to remember both the pain and the outcome of being rearranged, last time. It helps to remember that the kid who fought the hardest had the biggest blessings in store for him after the move. It helps to remember the connections we still maintain with people in the other parts of the country we have called “home.” 

---

2018: These are the days of big feelings.

That feeling when you realize it's all gift, and sometimes He takes gifts back, or exchanges them for others;

That feeling when you realize (again) that you have control over nothing, nothing that truly matters;

That feeling when your heart bursts with both grief and excitement, and they both just keep getting stronger;

That feeling when you unsettle the world of the children, and some shoot off fireworks of questions with excitement, while others curl up on the ground in a ball of sadness and fear;

That feeling when you trust and pray and commend yourself to God and you still just can't fall asleep;

That feeling when you realize your future is only as steadfast as the love of the Father for His children.

That feeling when God makes it clear: it’s time to move.

I walk in the kitchen; the lilly has bloomed. “It figures,” I think. The flower blooms right before we have to leave. Just like Seth’s friend -- the sixth grader who has never once spoken a word to his classmates (save one) his entire time at our school, last week he participated in the all school spelling bee! And his lips were unloosed and he spoke to Seth and to everyone, and we all got to taste a bit of the miracle that comes after years of loving loving-patience.  

We were blessed to see the first bloom… but we do not get to see the full coming of spring.

I am sad about the flower. I’ll have to give it to somebody. I wonder if the raspberries I planted will feed anybody but the birds. And the lilac bushes! It grieves me to leave them.

There are goodbye notes to write. I consider writing, “I feel like if we had more time together we would have been really good friends...”  But instead I try to be encouraging and thankful for the gifts that God did give.

“He was made for this.” This thought surfaced sometimes against my will as we deliberated. I think I knew it from the beginning, but it took longer to accept it.  People prayed for us as we went down to Kentucky to check things out. “Are we praying you stay?” somebody asked me. “Just pray for clarity.” “Did God make it clear last time?” someone else asked. “Yes he did.” I admitted that even as I doubted He would in this case. The unsettled waiting is so hard.

We drive down, deliberating all the way. The details make my head spin- things are moving too quickly.  The land begins to change. I’m not used to all these mountains. (“Hills,” he says. “They get much bigger.”)  I'm used to living where it's flat. When it's flat you can see where you are, you can get your bearings more easily. I find myself turned around, queasy, and always wondering what’s down that winding path.

There will be no steamrolling over nature here.

Here, I remember I am a creature, and my place in this world is small. What else can you do on a winding Kentucky road but consent to descend and ascend as the path unfolds?

And somehow, along the way, God works that consent in my heart.   I should have known He would.

He was made for this. God is making the way plain. Alright Lord, alright. I consent.

The truth of it is, I’m sad to go. I’m grieved to watch everything that makes up my “normal” be taken away by the hand of God- again! Didn’t we just do this!  Why don’t we get to have roots like so many other people do?  But we don't get to claim people forever, or places, or niches. None of us do. This seems to be a loud and constant lesson of our lives.

And yet, it helps that we have done this before. Because I know this God who takes things away a little better this time.  He takes, but He gives courage. He takes, but gives strength and clarity. He takes, but gives friends to comfort in grief and remind us of HIs goodness and promises.

And though I can’t see it now, I know that even as He is taking away from our lives with His right hand, He is also preparing good things for us with His left.

Our future is only as stable as the steadfast love of the Father for His children.
Steadily unsteady, we move ahead.

----

Pastor Cook’s last day as Pastor of Our Savior  is Jan 31. Your prayers for us during this transition are much appreciated.

Please also pray for our Our Savior Church family who, against their will, are riding this rollercoaster with us.  May God provide abundantly in our absence for His dear people here, and surround them with reminders of His faithfulness.

Disruptive Grace

Mind your prayers, people. They can be dangerous. 

God opened the door for Josh to finish his PHD just over a year ago, and He basically had to shove us through it.  After another round of painful goodbyes, and another exhausting move, we set our minds to make the best of our short stay in Kentucky.

Leaving old friends makes one hesitant to make new ones. I saw this in my children; I saw it in myself. 

“Lord, keep our hearts open in this place,” we prayed: a dangerous prayer. 

Thus we began a year of needs recognized, and then, provision.

Homeschooling was an enormous adjustment, flattening me with the needs of the children and my own need for support, patience, more time, everything!  “God, my kids need friends, and I need people who understand!”  

Last summer I attended a practicum, hoping to be better equipped to teach a few things at home, and God made it plain to me: “These are your people.” We jumped into Classical Conversations with both feet, and we were recived with open hearts. Our hearts opened in return, and we thank God that indeed, this homeschool community is “our people.”

At the same time, we attended the closest Lutheran church, slipping in and out of the pews quietly, just like normal people.  But open-hearted people sought us out, and drew us in. God’s people once again became our people.

We had no idea when we moved here, how God would meet our needs and fill our hearts. 

That “short stay” in Kentucky? It is yet another page in my life-planner that God has crumpled up and thrown in the trash. And I’m cheering him on. Josh was installed as pastor at Our Savior last weekend. We have purchased a house. Our hearts are open and our roots are sinking down in this place.

We are marvelling at the work of God,

and giving thanks

for his disruptive grace,

for the gifts He gives,

for the way He opens our hearts to want what He wills,

always more than we asked or imagined.

*The flowers in the picture are from installation day at the church, from the gardens of parishioners. 

It’s just like God to gather His people and make something beautiful.

roots and rest

A March day in Kentucky reminds me of a June afternoon in Michigan. I sit near a creek, the sun dances on the rushing water. If I close my eyes and lay still, stretched here on this tree, I am perfectly warm, except for the tip of my nose. 

I remember dad fishing, me on the river bank with my journal, the smell of pine trees, eating snacks packed by mom while soaking in nature and dreaming of boys, of the future, and trying to find the right words for all that filled my young heart.

I was eager to jump in a boat and follow the river then.

Today, I happily rest on this sturdy Kentucky tree branch, which is actually a giant root that juts out with others in a huge tangle and leaves me dangling over the water.  Such a lovely, still root.  

Will we get to put down deep roots here, and will they become strong and thick?

My mind travels upstream to where we have been.  From that bank on the river where my dad fished, from my childhood home, to college, to our first apartment, to babies and a house and deployments, to seminary, to more babies, to Indiana, and two more babies, and then to Eastpointe. 

I think of the resting places in each season: my favorite climbing tree as a child; the crisp woods of Northern Michigan; the arboretum in college, the fields and pond in Indiana, the wide, endless lake in Michigan. I think how I would have held tight to the ground in each of these places, and how God’s grip on me is stronger than mine on any place.

Now, I rest on thick tree roots in Kentucky alongside the creek I have come to love, just downstream from the rope swing that was a joy to the kids last summer. 

Will our roots have time to grow deeply here? 

I am no longer as eager to jump in the boat and see what’s around the next bend in the river. I like the stability of the shore, sitting on thick roots in Kentucky, even if they are not my own.

As usual, God reminds me that He is not my crystal ball. Yet He is my Comforter, and He sends the sun to warm my face, sends stillness to my body right alongside along the moving waters.

I hear Him making my next boat. I wonder how long I have until he calls me aboard?  No matter, He bids me rest and wait and live right here, and leave the planning to Him. 

These days (Kentucky version)

These are the days (first Kentucky version.)

These are the days when spring seems to have come suddenly- moving from Michigan to Kentucky, we’ve moved away from those last long weeks of cold into the land of blooms and green (blue)grass.  We live in a neighborhood now, where magnolia trees drop their petals on the sidewalks; where parking is tight but people are friendly.

These are the days of visitors: family, friends from Indiana, and friends from Michigan have been in and out almost every week since we have been here.  These are the days when Indiana memories flood with the Michigan ones, when we feel a renewed ache for TWO places we have loved and left behind.

These are the days of feeling unable to keep up with so many long-distance friendships, of email guilt and letter guilt and phone call guilt. And yet these are the days of gratitude, when prayers for friends cover large geographical areas, and even the kids have learned to pray for “our Michigan church family and our Indiana church family and the church in all the world.”

These are the days of asking for God to help us keep our hearts open in THIS place; of battling loneliness and resentment of people with “roots,” of at least one child who has determined not to risk it again, saying “I don’t need friends anyway.”

These are no longer the days of just being “mom and the kids.” We are now “teacher and her students,” and the change is a huge one.  My checklist-making side AND my nurturing side get a constant workout.

I love it, and it makes me want to cry.

The first week I handed out “tentative” schedules, and after day one I realized I wasn’t ready to plan a whole week in advance. Tentative daily schedules followed, and even those were overruled often.  

When trampoline springs began ripping off and shooting in the air and into neighbor’s yards, we had to declare it off-limits, and the pain of that loss is acute.  But these are the days of going to the rec center, of learning to swim, dive, play racquetball, pool, and ping pong.

This house feels very small on rainy days, particularly when some are practicing piano or instruments.  Some children wear earphones just to block out the others so they can concentrate. I assure them this is a life skill that will come in handy as they grow, particularly if they end up both having children and wanting to use their brains as adults.

These are the days of silly grammar songs, nature notebooks, and a Swiss Family Robinson book club.  These are the days of dog training and walks to the library, hikes in new places, and snake identification. These are the days of writing in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, capturing and learning about worms and salamanders, and practicing multiplication facts.

These are the days of new discoveries: the joys of audiobooks, the fishing hole at the park, the inter-library loan system, the power of an evening outing as incentive for us to finish our schoolwork. These are the days of observing just how horribly the can fight, AND how wonderfully they can love each other.

These are more days of “where’s dad? He has to be gone again?” We cheer him on from home while he studies full time and works full time and then some.  He begins his studies at 4am and camps out in the library for long hours. Working at Home Depot as a small-engine tech, he comes home home sore and dirty and tired from accomplishing so much.  Despite all that, these are still the days of early morning family devotions, when daddy steps away from his list to sit with us, to anchor us in the Most Important Things.

Those are the Words that keep us.

Show me your ways, Lord,
   teach me your paths.
Guide me in your truth and teach me,
   for you are God my Savior,
   and my hope is in you all day long.

Psalm 25

Here.

What is true here?

I ask this question when my head is spinning and I just need to sit in something solid.

We have bitten off a LOT. Homeschool day three is under my belt and my head is spinning. I love it, and also, it makes me want to cry. I want to fast forward to the day when I have thought through all the things and I am organized and relaxed… ok, more relaxed at least, relaxed enough to be confident and think clearly. Is that an unreasonable goal? I sure hope not. I don’t want to feel nuts quite like THIS all the time. Surely there is a better system.

But, self--  you must remember the lesson God has taught you a million times- there is no system that will fix your tendency to yell when you’re overwhelmed, or their bickering, or fix the fact that you truly are too small for this job; that you need His help and his forgiveness and forgiveness from the children, too. You don’t get to outgrow “weak and loved,” not even in a new town with a new vocation.

So many loose ends. Where will he work? Where will I work? How is any of this going to work? Will we ever be “known” here, will we find real friends? Will we ever have time to see our old friends?  And what of the kids? They need friends, too.

Under it all is this: God, you remember us, right? Have you taken us out into the wilderness to die?

Of course He hasn’t.

But I miss my old people. And there’s not enough time to call each one and catch up a bit; hardly time to send a text. We go to church and I tear up, missing them, praying for them.  I like seeing them all on facebook, but it’s also hard- seeing those pictures makes me want to eat pancakes made by the people whose voices I know and love, and hug the toddlers I knew as babies.

I’m throwing myself into homeschooling- yes, already. I know, that’s crazy, but even more crazy were those days of unstructured time in a new house with six kinds underfoot while I’m unpacking boxes they’re saying “Can we go to Indiana? Where are the batteries?  Where are the legos? I’m hungry. Can we go swimming? Where are the bikes? I’m hungry again.” We needed structure sooner than we needed that last box unpacked.

My kids are awesome people- it has been fun to rediscover this. I get to see them lean on each other, especially in those socially difficult situations--  being the weird new family rollerskating with the Lutheran School where nobody relaly knows who we are or how we got invited. (Dana invited us, for the record.)  They fight hard, but they love well, and it is so good that they have each other during this huge change.

Homeschooling makes me come alive almost like writing does. I get excited about schedules, goals, organizing systems. I love hearing their stories! It turns out the boy who gives us the most fodder for stories is also great at writing them. And I LOVE reading to a captive audience, especiallly when we stumble on an unfamiliar word and we get to define it and put it on our board for future enjoyment. The words! I love them.

They also drive me nuts, those words, especially the ones that say “Where are the markers?” and “How do I print again?” and “Do I have to practice my piano?” and “Can you help me with this for a second?” (times a hundred)  and “Mom can you come here for a second?” and “Marcus just called me an idiot!”

I miss silence, and afternoons with Rainy.

I read this to the kids at breakfast today, and we’re all trying to be like Marcus in the snow, receiving today’s blessings and not letting our souls go chasing after those things not given.  We mostly fail, and yet, God is enough.

What is true here?

The there was a special choral performance at church tonight. Resting in the words, in the stabilizing truth of this poem by St. Teresa of Avila

Let nothing disturb you, Let nothing frighten you,

All things pass away: God never changes.

Patience obtains all things.

He who has God Finds he lacks nothing; God is enough.

love. today.

My shoulders are soggy from the loving tears cried on them- the hugs, the gifts, the food, the words- we are leaving this place saturated with the love of God’s people. We are exhausted, loved, grateful.

Our kids are learning how to grieve in public. I guess this is a good thing? My daughters were comforted by women they hardly know as they all hug-cried in the bathroom. My son begged to go home when the tears finally came for him- I didn’t let him, and he soldiered on- and tears turned to distraction, food and fun with his friends one more time.  Let them lift you up, son. Let them love you while you’re here.

When the tears come, some run towards others, some hide.  I think those who have someone to hug also have someone to hold them up at times like this:  God’s grace through human arms. I hope my kids are learning this. I felt this, all day long.

“Maybe the love gets in easier when the heart’s broke open,” says Ann Voskamp, and I think she’s on to something.  It is hard to live with an open heart at times like this. But I do not regret it for a moment.  It was a battle, everyone- my heart broke leaving Indiana to come here. The temptation to make it a fortress of concrete was strong- but God didn’t let me pour the concrete, and I’m glad He didn’t.

We were spared the  kidney stone crisis on this Sunday, and God upheld my beloved so that he finished well. I love being married to this man, even on days like this.  It is a special talent, to be able to preach in a way that you speak to the grief we share as a church family, without making it all about oneself- pointing to Christ, giving all of us hope in His love.  His voice shook, his love for St. Peter’s poured out his eyes and made all of our eyes run. 
As if that wasn’t bad enough! At the end of the service, as he prayed and bowed with his brother-pastor Alex one last time, they hugged before they walked down separate aisles, before they parted in body (but not in spirit.)

Surely the Lord is in this place.
As heart-wrenching as this day was, I end it with gratitude, and with hope. Grief shared gives us a chance to love each other in new ways. As we face our powerlessness over the passage of time and the sovereign plans of God, we are humbled, yet strengthened as we look to God for comfort and help.

“The LORD watch between you and me, when we are out of one another’s sight.” Genesis 31:9
Keep your hearts open, dear friends in Christ, to God and to each other.  And thank you- to all of you who shared your hearts with us.
With love,
Emily

sad expectant waiting

As I pack up boxes and the shelves become empty, I am faced with unsettled feelings. In part, it’s the disruption of our order, of the rhythm here we have come to know and to love. But worse than packing is the way my calendar empties. Pee Wee basketball: Delete. Car show and sock hop: Delete. Talent show, baseball, adult volleyball: delete, delete, delete.

Delete, and wait on God to fill with who-knows-what. Will I have a niche there? What will it look like? (Peace, daughter. Wait.)

What people don’t understand, I imagine, is that the very things that make it hard to leave St. Peter’s- those are the things that also comfort me and give me the strength to move forward trusting God’s provision.

When we came here, it was also quick and jolting to all of us, and yet, we knew it was the right thing to do. Many people didn’t understand, and the goodbyes were wrenching. We left behind so many things that we loved: the house, the location, the people!  And I had a niche there, too- with my mom friends, serving coffee amidst the chaos of my home, with groups of women who knew how to pray with each other and discuss the most important things together every single week.

It was a season of grief, but also of joyful surprise, as I watched God rearrange and provide in our lives over and again when we came here.  He gave us a new home to love, new friends, new adventures. He showed us that there are a million different ways to live the Christian life well here in the city, and we got to see new sides of His work in the many vocations around us.

Eventually, He even gave me a niche here: a totally different one than before, but one I have poured myself into with the strength God provides.  And I have been blessed in this pouring out: blessed to have so many dear ones (children and adults) who make saying goodbye so very hard.

I quote my husband’s words here:

“As a called servant of a congregation we are never sure what God's plans are for us. The temptation, after serving in the ministry for over ten years, is to insulate oneself and your family so that when ... God moves you elsewhere it won't hurt you or the family as bad as if you let people into your hearts and lives. With God's help, I have always tried to love and be loved by God's people freely and honestly, without putting up walls. You all have seeped into the very fabric of my being in the way that only family can.”

Yes, these dear people have seeped in, and that’s why leaving hurts so bad. But I don’t regret it. I am glad they are in my hearts, even though it means suffering now. I may have been tempted to shield myself better if I had known… and so, I am glad I didn’t know.  Because friends in Christ ARE friends for eternity, and though it pains us to part, we know we will be reunited...in God’s timing.

As I worried to a friend about how people would take the news last week, she said, “Won’t anyone understand?”  I doubted, and said, “I am not sure they can understand. I think, the best I can hope for, is that some will still love us- even not understanding.” Oh, that is a lot to ask- more than I have to give in similar situations.  And yet God is working this grace in many people we love around here, and for that, we are so grateful.

The Sunday before we told everyone, Josh was sick in bed with kidney stones. I snuck over to church at 8am for communion.

Pastor Garber was preaching about sickness and God’s relief of it; I prayed for Josh, and for this man preaching who has become a dear brother to us.  My heart hurts; I try not to make eye contact with anyone. But pastor, he knows, and I know he is grieved.  He is broken; but I go up to communion, and there, he gives me Jesus. And I am broken, taking Jesus. Jesus broken for me.  And I think how this is church; broken people sharing Jesus even in their brokenness- this is what church does. It is good, Lord, to be here.

On my calendar, and here at St. Peter’s, there are empty spots: Delete, delete, delete. My chair where I used to greet people at the ECC in the morning: delete. The office where Pastor Cook always had an ear to lend: delete. The backyard at the parsonage next door with constant junk from a mess of kids: delete.

We are leaving holes as we leave, and we have no choice but to trust God to fill them.

The same God who is rearranging our lives is rearranging things at St. Peters. Dear brothers and sisters, join us in sad but expectant waiting!

Peace, children. Wait. Our God knows how to care for you.

Wait and see- He will take care of you!

"I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord

   in the land of the living!

Wait for the Lord;

   be strong, and let your heart take courage;

   wait for the Lord!" (Psalm 27)

Father may all your children keep on sharing the love you give, even with hearts broke open wide... Jesus, comfort your people, feed and uphold your church, and provide for all your children both near and far, until that day when you call us all home to be together with you in eternity.

these are the days of upheaval...

These are the days of big feelings.

That feeling when you realize it's all gift, and sometimes He takes gifts back, or exchanges them for others;

That feeling when you realize (again) that you have control over nothing, nothing that truly matters;

That feeling when your heart bursts with both grief and excitement, and they both just keep getting stronger;

That feeling when you unsettle the world of the children, and some shoot off fireworks of questions with excitement, while others curl up on the ground in a ball of sadness and fear;

That feeling when you trust and pray and commend yourself to God and you still just can't fall asleep;

That feeling when you realize your future is only as steadfast as the love of the Father for His children.

That feeling when God makes it clear: it’s time to move.

I walk in the kitchen; the lilly has bloomed. “It figures,” I think. The flower blooms right before we have to leave. Just like Seth’s friend -- the sixth grader who has never once spoken a word to his classmates (save one) his entire time at our school, last week he participated in the all school spelling bee! And his lips were unloosed and he spoke to Seth and to everyone, and we all got to taste a bit of the miracle that comes after years of loving loving-patience.  

We were blessed to see the first bloom… but we do not get to see the full coming of spring.

I am sad about the flower. I’ll have to give it to somebody. I wonder if the raspberries I planted will feed anybody but the birds. And the lilac bushes! It grieves me to leave them.

There are goodbye notes to write. I consider writing, “I feel like if we had more time together we would have been really good friends...”  But instead I try to be encouraging and thankful for the gifts that God did give.

“He was made for this.” this thought surfaced sometimes against my will as we deliberated. I think I knew it from the begining, but it took longer to accept it.  People prayed for us as we went down to Kentucky to check things out. “Are we praying you stay?” somebody asked me. “Just pray for clarity.” “Did God make it clear last time?” someone else asked. “Yes he did.” I admitted that even as I doubted He would in this case. The unsettled waiting is so hard.

We drive down, deliberating all the way. The details make my head spin- things are moving too quickly.

The land begins to change. I’m not used to all these mountains. (“Hills,” he says. “They get much bigger.”)  I'm used to living where it's flat. When it's flat you can see where you are, you can get your bearings more easily. I find myself turned around, queasy, and always wondering what’s down that winding path.

There will be no steamrolling over nature here.

Here, I remember I am a creature, and my place in tis world is small. What else can you do on a winding Kentucky road but consent to descend and ascend as the path unfolds?

And somehow, along the way, God works that consent in my heart.   I should have known He would

He was made for this. God is making the way plain. Alright Lord, alright. I consent.

The truth of it is, I’m sad to go. I’m grieved to watch everything that makes up my “normal” be taken away by the hand of God- again! Didn’t we just do this!  Why don’t we get to have roots like so many other people do?  But we dont get to claim people forever, or places, or niches. None of us do. This seems to be a loud and constant lesson of our lives.

And yet, it helps that we have done this before. Because I know this God who takes things away a little better this time.  He takes, but He gives courage. He takes, but gives strength and clarity. He takes, but gives friends to comfort in grief and remind us of HIs goodness and promises.

And though I can’t see it now, I know that even as He is taking away from our lives with His right hand, He is also preparing good things for us with His left.

Our future is only as stable as the steadfast love of the Father for His children.

Steadily unsteady, we move ahead.

Pastor Cook’s last Sunday will be Feb 25, and then we will move to Louisville, KY so that he can finish his PHD in Christian Preaching.

Your prayers for us during this transition are much appreciated.

Please also pray for our St. Peter’s church family who, much against their will, are riding this rollercoaster with us.  May God provide abundantly in our absence for His dear people here, and surround them with reminders of His faithfulness.