Tonight will mark one week, in this new life. Symbolically, it was not me that drove us from Phil and Pat's Topeka home, but Lily at the wheel of the truck loaded with a year of relocated and collected possessions moving back for school, for work, lessons, choir. Back to a life paused. Back to our home, a symbol of the closeness of our loving family, yet the foolishness of a dream still under construction that now seems absurd to me.

Yet this home is full of love, pictures, expectations, and memories. Some memories which, due to the mercy of urgent needs, have yet to be touched: Janelle's wardrobe, crafts, shoes - oh the shoes and harder things! We continue to discover an increasing pile of love notes and paper hearts with loving encouragement hidden among the daily normal intended to be found by Janelle but now rediscovered by their authors. This is a sad reminder of the summer she and I did not have together.

Grief is here. But not as I expected. It is colored and softened by the tangible effort of so many in our village doing the human work as the hands, feet, and embrace of God. Whose essence is the countless emails and text messages offering help, hope, and support. Whose touch is the paper of a thousand caring cards, condolences, and affecting notes of loss by Janelle's coworkers. Whose aroma is the food found warm and eager in our oven, or handed to us by loving faces. Whose laughter is the children finding gifts on fresh beds, welcome home balloons, and the after-school recounting of long-delayed reunions. Whose comfort is found in long tight hugs, shared tears, supportive messages from teachers, memorial fund contributions, and flexibility in work schedules. And whose strength has lofted us over the most precarious and painful cliff face of grieving to gently set us on a walkable slope guarded with a Dinner Club handrail built from the mettle of multiple church families, rototilled smooth by a Gang of wonderful friends, annotated by coworkers, guided by neighbors and schools, and accompanied by an unexpected new friendship. You have blessed us with a solid footing. 

I am unlikely to continue journaling here. I was fully aware and completely present as this chapter was written and this book closed in my arms. The sequel is a new story not founded in the tragedy of decline and death but from the powerful force of Janelle's living and life-giving that she poured on me and her equally powerful, brave, and annealed children. The opening paragraphs are already written, informed by this story but not limited by it. 

It is time we go "ice skating", celebrate Janelle daily (and on June 26), and, as we are able, become villagers again.

By you, I am humbled, amazed, and profoundly grateful.

Stephen