I listened to Susan Porter's talk during the Christmas Devotional 2025, and I appreciated her message about feeling God's light no matter the life experience she was going through. 

She told about a memorable Christmas Eve when her husband was in the hospital fighting for his life after surgery. Their family fasted and prayed. Due to the alertness of a nurse in the hospital, Bruce Porter was diagnosed with a respiratory illness and treatment was provided. The darkness they experienced was replaced with light and hope and Bruce recovered.

Six years later on Christmas Eve, Susan's husband was again in the hospital. He received a diagnosis and the doctors had a plan, but Bruce was told by the Spirit that there was nothing the doctors could do to save his life. Two days later he passed peacefully away at home surrounded by his family.

"Although each Christmas Eve had a different outcome, each one is sacred to us. Were tears shed, deep sorrow felt, along with loss and loneliness? Yes! And did we feel the light of God's love? Yes! At what felt like the going down of our sun in our lives, He gave us light and understanding."

"During our lives, there will be times when the sun may go down on our hopes and dreams. But because Jesus Christ came to earth and rose on the third day triumphant over sin and death, there will be no permanent darkness at the going down of the sun."

"There will be no permanent darkness when our nights come."

 

We pulled away from our house on Sunday afternoon and I shed a few tears. I asked my husband, "Is it okay to love a house?" He said it was okay to love a house, as long as I loved God more. I do love my house, and I do love God more.

I knew I would be emotional saying goodbye to friends and family, but my grief  regarding the house surprised me.

I love the house on Loridan Lane because it is where we lived for a while with all five children at home. It is where we studied the scriptures together, had family nights, enjoyed countless meals, welcomed friends and group date nights, planted a garden, worked together, practiced musical instruments, studied homework, laughed, cried, and loved. A house can become a sacred place. It is sacred to me because I have grown my testimony in this house and felt the Spirit.  

I am grateful for a house that shielded me from rain and wind. Many times I laid in bed listening to the howling wind, thinking about the pioneers on the open plain with no shelter, and I whispered prayers of gratitude for strong walls and a protective roof. Similarly, our house shielded us from the wickedness of the world. It is where we fortified our testimonies and became more spiritually reliant.

I will miss this house! I am grateful for the renters we have and the conscientious way that they care for homes. I cherish the memories made in this home and plan to make more in the years following our mission. 

 

When someone dies, people sometimes think it is better not to talk about the death or the deceased person, but often the surviving family members appreciate talking about their loved one. If you have a memory of the loved one, or an experience you had with them, share it; vocalize it or write it down for the family. 

J. William Worden writes, "I sometimes ask a survivor, 'What do you miss about him' (pg. 41)?

Talk about the person who has died—who he was, what he was like, what the family member remembers about him, what they enjoyed doing together, and so on (pg. 68).

Considerable time is spent talking about the deceased, particularly about positive characteristics, qualities, and pleasant activities which the survivor enjoyed with the deceased" (pg. 68).  

"In the past, extended families were close and neighborhoods provided a cohesive bonding which helped people to cope with loss.  But now that sense of community may no longer exist to provide immediate support, nor is the extended family as available. Therefore, people turn to the health care system and the mental health system for support and for care that previously would have come from other sources" (pgs. 3,4).

This quote filled me with a desire to be there for people during a loss. It is disheartening that as a society we are becoming more isolated, more removed and aloof. A community of caring friends is needed  for every hurting individual.  We all take turns being the one who needs the care. Life is beautiful when we look out for each other.

I will miss Max. I really enjoyed talking with him. He never married and did not have children. Max told me the he had one niece and one nephew, but they did not keep in touch. His two siblings have passed away. He talked with me about skiing, his growing up years, and serving as an Army medic. I admire the way he faced his final chapter of life with humor and a good attitude. He was patient and kind and he had a great smile. Max displayed two pictures in his room: one of his mother and the other of a cherished dog he once owned. It's good to think of Max reunited with his mother.

I miss Shirley! I miss singing hymns with her. She wrote the names of her favorite hymns in the front of her hymn book, and we always sang one of those hymns. She had a beautiful, clear soprano voice. I liked hearing about her growing up years, the way she met her husband, and the hobbies and interests that filled her life. Oh, how she loved her children and grandchildren! She was proud of their accomplishments and worried about them as they faced heartache and difficulties.  The best thing her children did for her was to throw her a big birthday party last summer! At that time, she was aging but not ailing. Little did they know that it would be her last birthday party.  After the party, her daughter made her a photo book filled with pictures, and Shirley loved showing everyone her party memory book. What a smart idea! Most of all, I miss Shirley's smile and her love.

 

Tonight our Book Club had a wonderful discussion about this book.  It was an unusual night in that everyone seemed to have liked the book. There were many lines and paragraphs that I have reread and pondered.  Here is a sampling:

When Naomi passed, I asked God to take away the pain.  I believed he could, and I pointed out to Him that doing so made sense.  Spare me this grief so I can get back to work, I told Him.  But He didn't; He saw me through the pain, but He didn't take it away.  He honors our sorrow by allowing us to experience it.  How else to deepen us? How else to increase our trust? Instead of fighting the pain, He asks us to surrender to it. Only then can it begin to heal us.  Thank Him for the emptiness.  He will fill it when He sees fit (pgs. 272, 273).

I have come to accept that at present I have only a partial view of reality; there are answer I will not be given until I leave this life.  I know that my Lord is the God of wheat fields and oak tress, of mountains and valleys. and that His answers, like HIs works, often require time (pg. 278).

This growing old is the great test, you know--the challenge we've been preparing for all along (pg. 264).

 

This was a required book this term for my chaplain class and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I learned many principles and lessons, such as:

Each of us is unfinished, a work in progress.  Perhaps it would be most accurate to add the word “yet” to all our assessments of ourselves and each other. It changes everything (pg. 223).

God’s presence in the house is an inner experience that never changes.  It’s a relationship that’s there all the time, even when we’re not paying attention to it.  Perhaps the Infinite holds us to Itself in the same way the earth does.  Like gravity, if it ever stopped we would know it instantly.  But it never does (pg. 265).

Each of us heals in our own way. Some people heal because they have work to do. Others heal because they have been released from their work and the pressures and expectations that others place on them.  Some people need music, others need silence, some need people around them, others heal alone. Many different things can activate and strengthen the life force in us (pg. 18).

As women, we knew there was something simple and natural in just being there, together.  Women have always been present at these times, at death and birth and in many of the other transitions in life. Women have gathered at the transitions, as comforters and companions, as witnesses, to mark the importance of the moment (pgs. 44, 45).

When we listen, we offer with our attention an opportunity for wholeness. Our listening creates sanctuary for the homeless parts within the other person.  That which has been denied, unloved, devalued by themselves and by others. That which is hidden. Listening creates a holy silence.  When you listen generously to people, they can hear truth in themselves, often for the first time. And in the silence of listening, you can know yourself in everyone (pg. 220).

These marvelous art pieces by Caitlin Connolly make me think, and I wonder what she was thinking when she drew them. I like the lines, colors, and subject matter.

Open Hands Receiving

She Wore It On Her Sleeve

Leaning On a Mother

Her Arms Grew Tired as She Held the World in Its Place

A Busy Mind

Letting Go of Some Sorrows

Lifting Up a Woman

Leaning Against Something Unknown

Another school term has come to a close.  I learn so much every week! Here are just a few notes and quotes from class this past term:

Things to say when visiting with someone...

“I’ve observed….” 

“Help me understand….” 

“I am here as an observer, not in a position of judgment.” 

“I wish I had the right words to say.” 

“I’ve never dealt with this before.”

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

“It’s good to see you.” 

“You’ve been in my heart.”

“I’m here with you, you’re safe.”

Say "How are you holding up?" rather than "How are you?"

Don’t preach. Don’t judge. Don’t criticize or correct.

Offer comfort and reassurance.

You am there for the one.

Feeling brings healing.

"The agony is great and yet I will stand it.  Had I not loved so very much, I would not hurt so very much.  But goodness knows I would not want to diminish that precious love by one fraction.  I will hurt and I will be grateful for it.  For it bears witness to the depth of our meanings and for that I will be eternally grateful" (Anonymous).

"She has made her loss into an offering, her suffering into a crucible, her pain into medicine." (Chaplain Richard Cronshe)