Ryan and Katie were living in Malawi when Katie got the call. There’d been an accident. A car hit a pothole while speeding and crashed headlong into a small lorry that Ryan was driving.
Katie didn’t know until she reached the hospital that her husband had died at the scene of the accident. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing and screaming.
There were always several hands in the air during the Q&A. The freshmen were my favorite. “Ooh, me, me! Pick me!” So full of enthusiasm and hope. Surprisingly attentive.
A few years back, my husband and I started a tradition of making memories with one grandchild at a time for a full week. This past week was eleven-year-old Lydia’s turn.
Heading across a snowy meadow and into the trees on the return loop, there were two trail options. But no signage.
I knew all routes led back to Mt. Bachelor, but I wasn’t sure which one was the shortest. And the shortest seemed the most important at the moment … because there was a thick cloud bank rolling in from the west.
A mobile shower unit, designed to provide showers for homeless clients, was purchased by Foundry Church in Bend, Oregon. But it was in disrepair.
That’s when Tom and Tricia Stutheit took over the administration of the truck and recruited Dan Lawry, a retired electrician, mechanic, and general tinkerer, to contribute his expertise.
It’s been five years since my husband Gary left this tilting, whirling globe for a cancer-free, no-pain, zero-stress life in heaven.
My grief is long gone. In its place, there are movie reels of contagiously fun adventures that unfolded during the cancer years. In living color.
Several dark mornings a week—during the final months of my husband’s life—I woke up with a rather large sumo wrestler standing over me, pulling my stomach into a tight knot of anxiety.
Worry over the thought of widowhood. Concern about our financial situation and how I could afford to stay in the small rental solely on my salary.
Daughter Summer, SIL Josh, and five of the six grands moved to Oregon from New Jersey last week. They were at my place for a few days before heading “over the hill and through the woods” to the other side of the Cascade Mountains.
It was a sunny July—four months before my husband, Gary, died. We were in a cozy vacation cabin with family. And I was adding to my gratitude journal.
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
