Jesus is the Way, the Truth, the Light

         I’d still been having a hard time coming up with a theme for my blog posts during Lent this year. The only thing that kept running through my head was, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,” from the book of John, chapter 14.

         So, I thought, what else does that chapter say? And is it all worthwhile to share?

"Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me. 2 There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? 3 When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am. 4 And you know the way to where I am going.”

5 “No, we don’t know, Lord,” Thomas said. “We have no idea where you are going, so how can we know the way?”

6 Jesus told him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me. 7 If you had really known me, you would know who my Father is. From now on, you do know him and have seen him!” (John 14:1-7, New Living Translation)

My favorite place within driving distance

Journal of our Journeys

Chapter 16 - Up North to the UP

Many weekend mornings throughout my childhood, we woke up early, and Mom packed us and a picnic lunch into the car. With Dad at the wheel, we'd drive to Copper Falls, Potato Falls, Saxon Harbor, and Ashland in Wisconsin. Just over the border in Michigan, we'd go to Ironwood with its statue of the world's tallest Indian, Black River Harbor, the Porcupine Mountains, and the Lake of the Clouds. I am indeed blessed that I was raised within a three-hour drive of all of these wonderful places.

We had camped at some of these places on weekends before, but in 1975, we took a few more days and drove further north. All the way north, as a matter of fact, to the tip of the peninsula.

The first night, however, was spent at McLain State Park just outside of Hancock, Michigan. I don't know what it is about this state park, but it has always fascinated me. I think it's the amazing sunrises and breathtaking sunsets you can view from the beach or your campsite, if you're lucky enough to get a spot on the lake. Even campsites that are not on Lake Superior (the sites Mom always picked) have a view of the lake through the trees. And late in the evening, when all is still, you can hear the water lapping at the shore.

A couple that Mom and Dad knew from church set up their trailer at McLain for the entire summer, so it was nice to stop in and visit them. Mrs. Kleinfeldt even took her organ camping with her – a real, though small organ, not one of the keyboards of the late twentieth century. She would play hymns on it for the rest of the campers on Sunday mornings.

From McLain State Park, it is just a hop, skip, and jump to another State Park, Fort Wilkins. Fort Wilkins is a restored 19th-century military fort. Settlers in the area feared trouble with the local Indians, so they wanted a military presence nearby. As it turned out, there were no problems with any Native Americans, and the base was only in operation for a few years. The buildings had decayed over the years but have been painstakingly restored and tell a fascinating story of pioneer life, where winters were frigid, and the snow could reach the tops of roofs.

Somewhere along the highway, along Lake Superior, there was a small gift shop on a bluff above the water. The proprietor sold pieces of driftwood with paintings of birds on them, rocks with paintings of birds on them, and framed paintings of birds, along with lots of polished stones from along the shore.

The building had a small tower. Up two flights of stairs, there was a little windowed room with fantastic views of the lake. Occasionally, an iron ore freighter could be seen slowly moving along the horizon. Only five months later, one of those freighters, the Edmond Fitzgerald, along with its 29-man crew, would succumb to the will of the Great Lake during a November storm.

Further inland and far to the east is another state park, which hosts one of the largest waterfalls in the eastern United States. The campground at Tahquamenon Falls is as nice as any of the state parks in the UP; they all have modern amenities, such as flush toilets, hot showers, and electrical hookups. However, instead, we stayed at a small, private campground that we rated an "ugh" in the camping log.

We had a reason, though, for not staying at the state park. We left the camper at Soo Junction, just north of the burg of Newberry, and rode the Toonerville Trolley through the tranquil woods and swamps to the Tahquamenon River. The small train rocked and rattled along its narrow track for an hour or so.

Then, we boarded a riverboat, which took us within walking distance of the waterfalls. It was an interesting trip, unconventional for us. We got to see a lot of the countryside, and the scenery was fantastic. But then, it always is in the UP of Michigan.  

Over the years, I would return to all of those places, and the magic never got old. Unfortunately, the Toonerville Trolley and Riverboat Tour closed in the fall of 2024 after 96 seasons in operation. It's a shame I never got to take my husband and our kids on this excursion.

(This is the only picture I have from that camping trip in 1975. The rest of the pictures in this blog are from the many other, more recent trips we've taken to the UP.)

How It Ends – Weepy Wednesday, episode 6

I know you’ve heard this story; maybe you’ve even read it in the book I wrote about my sister Pat. But here it is again, coz this is the weepy theme I’ve chosen for Wednesdays for now.

Chapter 13 - How it Ends (from the book "Holding All the Aces")

           “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” I read from her Bible at the side of her bed several nights later. Pat was unresponsive, her breathing labored but steady.

           “Keep reading,” Mom whispered to me. “They say that your hearing is the last thing to go.”

          We were keeping vigil, something I never in a million years thought I would be doing, there at Pat’s bedside in the nursing home. Just being in the nursing home was beyond anything I could fathom. My sister Pat? Bubbly, full of life, a pistol who never stopped moving, never stopped working. How could she be lying in that nursing home bed, pale and gaunt, unable to speak or move on her own?

           “He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

           Why would God do this to my sister, my best friend? Why did she have to suffer so much and so long? If He wanted her in heaven, why didn’t He take her suddenly, painlessly? And why can’t He send a miracle? Right here and right now?

           The doctors said that it had been a miracle that she had lived for six years with this kind of an aggressive cancer. Really? Because I didn’t see it as a miracle, I saw it as six years of my sister dying when she should have been living.

           “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

           But she had lived those six years. She and I had gone on camping trips, sometimes with Judy, sometimes with my kids. She had stood up at the wedding of her best friend from college. She had been the photographer for my second wedding. She and her husband, along with me and mine, had flown to Las Vegas for a long weekend. She had continued working as long as she could.

          “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over.”

           I looked up at Mom, and she gestured that I should keep reading. But I was out of ideas. Sure, there were many more chapters in the book of Psalms, David’s outpouring of belief in his God and that all things would turn out right through Him. But I just could not do it.

           The following day, my sister Judy joined the vigil. When the nurse checked on Pat, she nodded toward her bed as she left the room. I don’t remember if she actually said it or not, but the words that came into my head were, “It’s time.”

           We gathered around Pat and watched her lungs fill for the last time. Then, the air slowly ebbed from her, as if the oxygen was leaving not only her lungs but her fingers and toes and even her pores.

           A sob escaped from Mom, and Judy probably reacted as well. All I did was watch that frail chest, waiting for it to rise again, willing it to rise. Not taking my eyes from that slight lump under the sheet.

           “Come on, Pat, come on, you can do it. Take another breath.”

           It never happened.

           “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Where My Heart Is

It's the first Sunday in Lent, and if you've been following my blog over the years, you know I like to write a series of blog posts for these six weeks in remembrance of Jesus last days as a man on this earth. I haven't come up with any new ideas this year. And if God is sending me some ideas, I'm not hearing Him. 

But I guess that's because something else is on my mind and in my heart. Today is the six-month anniversary, and that is where my mind and my heart should probably be. I think that's what God wants for me today. 

(These were pictures from different road trips that we went on after the kids were grown.)

Let’s take a break and have a Funday Friday

Two weeks ago, I wrote about trips around Wisconsin that my family took one year when I was a kid. I talked about picking cherries in Algoma and that I couldn’t find the picture I was thinking of.

Guess what? I found it; here it is. But looking at that picture reminded me of a hysterical and inappropriate story. 

Back in the sixties and seventies, Ajax Powdered Cleanser advertised that the white powder was sprinkled with blue dots which were more effective cleaning agents, instilled with bleach. At the time, Mom had a shirt which had blue dots on it, which she is shown wearing in this picture.

The thing is there were two blue dots on the front of her shirt which were – how should I say it? Improperly placed, or if you have a juvenile sense of humor, they were in just the right spots.

For years, my sister Pat and I called it Mom’s Ajax Blue Dot shirt, and then we’d giggle. And Mom never got it. Hee hee hee. 

We'll Be Okay, and We Were - - Weepy Wednesday, episode 5

111 years ago, this coming Friday, my dad was born in Köln, Germany. His mother, Emma, was 26, and his father, Paul, was 28.

When he was nine years old, he traveled across the ocean aboard the Republic, with his mother, younger brother, and two sisters. They settled in Chicago, and then Grandpa died five years later in 1929. Grandma remarried later that same year. By 1940, they were living in Tripoli, Wisconsin, and owned a farm.

(Dad on the right, with his sister and younger brother - I just realized this was taken the day their dad died)

I'm not sure when Dad started driving bus for the Tripoli School District. But you may remember the story, because I've told it many times, Dad was Mom's school bus driver. He had just turned thirty when he asked seventeen-year-old Mom out.

They married on July 6, 1945, six months after Mom turned eighteen and graduated from high school. Those were different times.

Four kids and forty-eight years later, Alzheimer's Disease had taken over Dad's brilliant mind. With only an eighth-grade education, he had been one of the smartest men I'd ever known. He read voraciously and could solve any problem put before him. Until those last few years.

Friday, April 23, 1993, Mom finally couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stay awake with him all night as he tried to get out of the house to wander, couldn't handle him calling her the nurse, demanding to know what she'd done with his wife. She admitted him to the nursing home.

I went to visit him that afternoon, in that place where no daughter should have to see their dad, confused and scared. He was wandering the halls when I saw him, but his face lit up in his signature crooked smile.

"You're someone I should know," he clearly stated.

"I'm your daughter, Chris."

His smile broadened, and he nodded. Then, he scooted past me to keep walking the halls.

On Sunday afternoon, Mom called to say he had choked on some food and had been taken to the hospital. When he was admitted to the nursing home, she told the staff that she had been pureeing his meals because he had started choking, forgetting how to swallow. They told her that they would need an order from his doctor to do that, and since he was out of the office until Monday, it would have to wait until then.

The doctor on duty at the hospital told her that Dad would need a feeding tube or he would continue to choke on whatever he ate, and that it would eventually kill him. As it was, he was already showing signs of aspiration pneumonia.

We all knew that Dad would never want a feeding tube. And why prolong his life if he was no longer living the life he had loved for 78 years.

When his regular physician saw Dad in the hospital on Monday, he agreed with Mom and us kids. Keep him comfortable, keep an IV going, but let nature run its course.  

He lay in bed pretty much unresponsive until Thursday morning. When his doctor made rounds, he asked, "How are you doing, Paul?"

"Not so good," Dad answered.

Mom and I looked at each other. He hadn't spoken since the weekend.

Late that afternoon, Mom got a call from her niece. She and her husband were leaving on vacation but didn't know whether they should go because of how Dad was doing.

Mom reassured her several times, saying, "You go ahead and go. We'll be okay."

After she finally hung up the phone, the nurse came in to check on things. She nodded to us and whispered, "It's getting close."

Within ten minutes, Dad took his last breaths, Mom holding one of his hands, me holding the other. Even though Mom struggled for years over our joint decision to withhold a feeding tube, she believed with all her heart that when she was talking on the phone to my cousin, Dad heard her say, "You should go. We'll be okay."

I believe that too.

Dreams

Jesus answered, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” (Matthew 19:21, New International Version) 

I’ve had that paper in my drawerful of memories from my kids for a long time. It was an assignment of Val’s from when she was in second or third grade. If you can’t read it, her answer is “I have a dream that all the poor children are not poor. And that the wars will not happen.”

She wrote that years before our first trip to Kenya, over a decade before she returned to Africa for six months which would change her life. But there she was, just that little girl, dreaming of saving little kids from lives of poverty, dreaming of a world full of peace, where we all love each other.

And my dream is that Val – at least her memory – keeps making the world a better place.

        “I give you a new command: Love each other. You must love each other as I have loved you. All people will know that you are my followers if you love each other.” (John 13:34-35, New Century Version)