On Wednesday, February 8th, 2023

Last Wednesday, February 8th, 2023 at 10 a.m. Kentucky time, 8 a.m. Arizona time, a revival broke out in the chapel service at Asbury College and Seminary. which as I write this has not ended 7 days later. Their speaker had asked them to call out what they need freed from, and as chains broke around the chapel, the glory of the Lord filled the room, and the students have not ceased basking in it. Some may label it emotionalism, but there is precedence in Church history for transformation beginning in giant waves such as this. People have flown and drove in from all over the country, hungry to witness this move of the spirit.

 At that same exact time, about 8 a.m. Arizona time, 10 a.m. Kentucky time, revival broke out in the ICU of a hospital in Mesa, AZ. My mother-in-law's co-worker, a hospital chaplain, led family members in such a robust rendition of "In the Garden", complete with a blue tooth speaker and accompaniment, that the nurses had to rush over and close the doors so as not to "disturb" the other patients. Later one of the nurses confided in us that "I think I just got saved again." I said then she must have been Nazarene...I don't think all the Baptists got my joke. That was how my mother-in-law started her last day on earth. 

I can't help but think about how the same God praised without ceasing at Asbury that morning, was the same God who held us in the ICU, as our Susan was ushered into the real and full glory of his presence. And there's celebration in that. But there is also pain and incredible loss. We weren't made for goodbyes.

Susan's brother has asked each person who's life she touched to finish the sentence, To me, Susan was___. And there is just not enough room in that dash to begin to explain.

Susan was one of the most important characters of my adult life. I met Susan when I was 20 years old, and I loved her immediately. Everybody did. Susan was real. And, when Dan asked me to marry him, I was almost as excited to be her daughter-in-law, as to become Dan's wife. Almost.

When I met her, Susan was a school nurse. So, when I had my babies, she was usually the first person I would call to triage serious concerns vs. anxious mama thoughts. She was such an involved Grandma. She'd get down on the floor, get her kitchen messy with projects, and drop everything to come let the boys grandma-sit so I could catch my breath.

Later, Susan became a hospice nurse. She cared for my own grandma in her last weeks on earth. She wasn't afraid of death and dying. She wasn't afraid to be present in people's grief. I think God knew how much I'd need a Susan in my life. Susan had looked grief straight in the eyes, when she said goodbye to her still-born daughter, Karen many years ago. And Susan was at our house fixing dinner and watching our boys when Dan and I returned from the appointment in which we couldn't pick up Eleanor's heart beat. In countless ways, in the days and years following that loss, Susan showed up for our grief. She said Eleanor's name-in fact she cross stitched it onto a tiny stocking. She gave me permission to be physically "tired" with grief or to take a break from attending baby showers. And then, Susan was there last May when we began the process of saying goodbye to my dad. She calmly explained hospice, and what a strangely beautiful time the transition from this life to the next, surrounded by loved ones, in the place they felt comfortable could be like. And she gave us space to let it sink in, not pushing or over-stating. Just listening. One of my friends who'd worked with Susan in hospice pointed out what a lovely thought it is to picture all the patients she'd guided through the end of the journey excitedly greeting their Susan on the other side.

Most people knew that Susan loved to sing. Susan sang to every baby she held. I, as a Children's Pastor, to this day, find myself singing those silly and sweet songs to babies as I change diapers, or rock criers. In fact, I have caught myself singing them to her youngest grandbaby, Dylan, a few times this past week, and it nearly broke my heart. She sang hymns in church and at weddings and at funerals. She even surprised us once, asking to sing the offertory at OUR church one Sunday when she visited. Susan loved to take us Christmas caroling to people who were in hospice or experiencing crisis or stuck at home. She always ended with this ridiculous version of "The 12 Days AFTER Christmas" that none of us were brave enough to sing with her. Every co-worker who has visited or written us since her death has said, "I have this video of Susan singing this funny song at our Christmas party last year..." and we just roll our eyes and laugh. Last Christmas we didn't go caroling, which I kind of regret. But, we did, however, take Dan and Susan to Merry Mainstreet. There was a stage set up for Karaoke. I saw her eyeing it all night and knew she wanted to participate. Finally, last minute, her and Moses went up and "performed" Jingle Bells, all the verses, for the little crowd gathered. It was unforgettable. 

Susan loved to sew. The boys each have special quilts based on their interests when they were young. When Moses went through cancer treatment she made a quilt for the purpose of having each doctor, nurse, and visitor sign as a remembrance of how God cared for us during that time. She made dresses for my nieces, and Hawaiian shirts with a southwestern print for us to take on Moses' Make-a-Wish trip. If we needed a prophet costume for Bible character day at preschool, or our boys' long sleeved shirts were too long...I knew who to ask.

Some of my favorite memories of Susan were the trips we took together. Too many trips to Dewey to count. Her and I would hop in the car and head to Fry's, and she'd ask me why I was buying the name brand ketchup or why I didn't just use the ketchup that had been in the fridge up there for five years...as mother-in-laws do. And then we'd stay up half the night talking and watching movies.

We went to Disneyland once, both Dan's parents, my parents, and Daniel. We all wore matching shirts and got a lot of attention. A few years ago the family went up to Green Bay, Wisconsin together to scatter Grandma Great Scott's ashes at her family's cottage on Lake Michigan. We picked cherries, and we drove into Chicago where we ate real deep dish pizza and watched the Cubs play. Last October we met up in San Diego, where we stayed at a beach house. Susan loved San Diego. She loved the beach. She loved seeing her grandkids unplug and run barefoot through the sand. I can still picture her making her way along the pier with her big, floppy beach hat.

Susan loved Christmas. With her heart not functioning well these past few months, she had run out of steam before putting away some of the decorations. Last Saturday I would fill the box, and hoist it into the closet, only to find one more thing I'd missed...a gingerbread man soap pump here, a snowflake shower curtain there. And I think that's what the memories and the grief are going to be like. There's reminders of her everywhere. Just when we think we've tucked sadness into a box, there it will be again, in a book I hadn't returned to her, or a question that comes up I can't ask.

Do I have regrets? Some. Two weeks ago we had hoped to go by for a visit but ran out of time. We'd go Monday. But by Monday she was in the hospital. There were times I didn't have energy to talk and would let her go to voice mail. Because that sweet woman was a night owl. And I am not. There were times that she was quiet and I would make assumptions instead of asking questions. But, I think these are the things that happen sometimes with the people we love best. Because our expectations for each other are high, and we always believe there's a "later." What matters most are the hundreds of banked memories. I hope we can always hear her laugh, recall the smell of rainy day roast when we would walk in the house, feel her hugs.

I know my grief is different from the grief of a daughter or son, or the grief of a spouse, or even a life-long friend. But Susan, to me, was so much more than the mother of my husband, she was one of the most influential people in my life, and the glue that held us all together.