Gone from our sight

My beautiful mother passed away quietly in the early morning hours of December 29, my sister, Christine, taking her turn by her side.

The ensuing days are a bit of a blur. Arrangements were made, things somehow got done. Words of comfort and the love of family and friends surrounded us and kept us going.

My mother was a nurturer of relationships far and wide. And so from as far away as Denmark, Sweden and Norway, we heard from cousins and friends, providing flowers, cards, and phone calls, sharing memories of her many visits to her ancestral homeland along with words of kindness, sympathy and cheer.

My nephew, Josh, read the following verse, written by Henry Van Dyke, at the funeral service. It was found in a booklet the hospice team provided for us. It brought us comfort then and now, these days of mourning, reminding us that she is gone only from our sight. She lives on in our hearts and in all we do as her children.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.

I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then, someone at my side says,

"There, she is gone."   Gone where? Gone from my sight. That is all.

She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout,

"Here she comes!"

And so heaven welcomed her that wintry morning, and we rejoiced at her homecoming. Only sad for us, not for her. She is exactly where she wanted to be, in the arms of Jesus. She kept her eyes on her goal those eight long days at the hospital, until the time was just right.

Never wavering. Never doubting. Nothing left undone, nothing left unsaid, in this world.

So we say, "So long for now, Mom."  But just for now.

Knitting for comfort

Knitting is one of those things that brings me comfort. And serenity.

Working with fiber, feeling the softness of yarn on my lap, listening to the faint clicking of my bamboo knitting needles.

But my recent project is not for my own comfort.

When I joined a new church recently, they learned of my interest in knitting. So one Sunday, following a service, a member approached me and told me of their prayer shawl program. She asked if I might be interested.

She explained the mission of the program: to knit shawls to give to people who need comfort. For any reason. Perhaps they are ill, perhaps grieving a recent loss. Lonely or depressed. Hurting in some way.

The idea is to pray for comfort for the receiver of the shawl, though you may never know who that is, or know their circumstances.

So I am knitting. I have three shawls started, in three different patterns.


When I visited my favorite yarn shop, Mrs. I's in Osceola, to purchase yarn for the shawls, I told the owner about the project. I showed her the suggested pattern that calls for casting on 57 stitches, knitting three, purling three, and continuing on.


It turns out she has done presentations on prayer shawls. I learned that the patterns are based on the Trinity, so everything is divisible by three. She showed me one she had done.

Now when I start a shawl using a different pattern than the suggested one, I cast on 57 stitches and make sure I'm using a set of three somehow in my rows.

It is gratifying and brings me joy. Knitting for comfort.