We first came together on a church committee 31 years ago, a group of young moms staffing the nursery during Sunday morning services. The committee met monthly to divvy up jobs, write a newsletter, discuss ideas and inspire each other to be good wives and mothers. Our nursing babies attended the committee meetings, too, most of whom are now grown with babies of their own.

But following an agenda was not all that happened at our meetings. Friendships were formed, and chit-chat included laughter and sometimes tears as we shared parenting struggles along with dessert. Years passed, and most of us left nursery duty to serve in other ways, but we still wanted to get together. That’s when our Club was officially formed. We were in our forties, zooming toward our fifties, and decided to name our group The Menopausal Mamas, or The M&M’s.

Anyone could join us, but they had to meet one of three requirements: 1) be over forty, 2) be in menopause, or 3) have a teenager. All three of those categories needed strong doses of female support, and on that basis, we came together.

In the beginning years we each brought hand work to Club, needlepoint, photo albums, art projects, mending. One balanced her check book. Another graded school papers. I used to do my ironing. As we worked, we talked. If someone arrived at Club in a quandary over something, she could count on the rest of us to prop her up with understanding and acceptance. Before long, she’d be laughing.

The M&M’s have come together to make banquet centerpieces, plan bridal showers and celebrate milestone birthdays. We’ve also spent time praying in one accord when problems needed more than discussion. Most of all we’ve gathered just to spend time together, enjoying the luxury of being ourselves in the company of long-term friends.

Nine of us became the “old faithful,” and together we’ve been through thick and thin. In our early meetings, we joked we’d be the ones to plan luncheons after each others’ funerals. The first lunch of this kind has now occurred when The M&M’s laid out a lavish buffet after Nate’s funeral. I’ll never forget the strength and steadiness with which they made that difficult day go as well as possible for me and our family.

My mom belonged to her own Club when I was growing up. They met monthly and started their group during World War I. They called themselves Purl Harder, since many of them were knitting (and purling) for service men after the attack on Pearl Harbor. I remember lying in bed listening to these women talk and laugh until the wee hours of the morning, wondering what in the world could be so entertaining to a bunch of old ladies. Now I know it’s simply a healthy way to release the pressure of being wives and mothers. Our kids have listened to the same kind of animated conversation from their beds during meetings of The M&M’s.

Women love to be with other women. When I used to tell Nate, “I have Club tonight…” he could have responded with, “What, again?” or in some other way discouraged me from going. After all, I was leaving him with homework time, bath time and bedtime on a work day. Instead he’d say, “Go ahead and go. It’s cheaper than a psychiatrist.”

On that score, he was right. When one of us has a problem, we bring it to Club where it can be talked through and solved. We share photos of weddings and grandchildren, marveling at the cycles of life. Although it gets more and more difficult to bring everyone together, we continue to meet.

Mom’s Club members have their get-togethers in heaven now, all but one, and she’s anxious to join them. In time, the M&M’s will go the same route. But for now, we’ll continue where we are, loving, laughing, celebrating and consuming  fabulous desserts!

“Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way. Say to those with fearful hearts, ‘Be strong. Do not fear; your God will come’.” (Isaiah 35:3-4a)

Many friends have expressed an interest in our children, where they are, what they’re doing and how they’re coping with having lost their father. Today I opened 56 envelopes in a three week stack of mail accumulated while I was gone. I left the hand written envelopes till last, knowing they’d be best. Among them was one from our firstborn, Nelson.

It was a letter he’d written in February, just before leaving the country for six months. I knew the gist of it, but as I read it in my quiet cottage with twilight settling outside the sunroom windows, my heart nearly burst to realize anew what God had done in this son’s heart and life.

Nelson is a strong believer in Christ, spiritually mature, passionate about the Bible and full of wisdom, but he wasn’t always that way. As a teen he rebelled wildly, yanking Nate and I into police stations and court rooms with his antics and eventually running away from home. He made one bad choice after another over years of time, accumulating the related natural consequences. But somewhere along the way, Nelson heard God calling his name and made the decision to surrender his life and follow him, no matter what.

It hasn’t been easy, but he’s stuck like glue to that commitment, craving time with, and knowledge of God over everything else. As I wept with joy over this son in whose life God holds preeminence, I was encouraged to keep praying for those who are still resisting. Following Christ can be difficult for young men, because they are taught to lead. But as I’ve seen in Nelson, God rewards the surrendered. Please allow me to quote from Nelson’s letter, which will answer questions about how he’s doing:

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“On September 22, my Dad told me his back surgery would be delayed because the doctor found cancer in his pancreas. I raced to Michigan to be with him and Mom. For the next 42 days I watched my amazing family gather together and rally around my Dad as he clung to life on earth, and as he eventually let go to be with Jesus.

For November and December, I stayed in Michigan with Mom. We had dinner and a fire almost every night and spent lots of time talking about Papa while the rest of the ‘kids’ came and went on the weekends. During this time, I spent time praying about the next thing.

On my birthday I got an email from a Youth With A Mission (YWAM) friend who asked if I would consider working on staff with a Discipleship Training School (DTS) out of Oxford, New Zealand. Actually, she’d been asking for at least a year, but I always turned down the opportunity. This time she persisted. She told me they were short on male leaders and reminded me I had previous experience (1996-1998, leading teams to Japan, Korea, the Philippines and India). I had always hoped God would call me back at some point.

So I prayed and decided to get a second opinion from my ‘home’ church in Brentwood, TN. After gaining their support and that of my family, I agreed to go to New Zealand. My job on staff is a combination of being a facilitator, leading discussion groups, being the worship leader, planning outreach mission projects, supervising student work duties and accompanying the group as they travel across the world from New Zealand to Jerusalem where graduation will occur 8/20/10. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for these young people as they get to serve under several long-term missionaries and see the world in the process. Only God knows what vision and ministries might be birthed as we go.”

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When Nelson was praying into his decision in January and February, God regularly sent concrete nudges toward a “yes”. Nelson followed that leading and decided to go. Immediately afterwards, a most powerful confirmation message came from the grave, from his own father, in an unusual way.

Nate’s close friend Wayne visited four days before Nate died, flying up from Florida to do so. As they brought each other up to date on their children, Wayne took note of Nate’s words about each of ours. On February 11, just after Nelson had decided on missions, an email from Wayne popped into my inbox: ”The thing I remember most [in the details about the kids] was Nate’s prediction that Nelson would return to mission work, and how proud he was that he would do so.”

I forwarded this gratifying confirmation to Nelson (who was then helping a friend in Honolulu) and marveled at God’s amazing creativity. For Nelson to be cheered on by his father at this important life road-fork was a gift-wrapped package from the heavenly Father. (And thank you, Wayne!)

Who says life as a Christian is boring? Today it was so thrilling, I couldn’t even hold it in. It spilled out in tears of joy.

I’ve always been a glutton… a photo glutton. I came by it naturally, since Mom was one, too. But as is often the case, the next generation takes everything to an extreme.

Mom got her first camera as a teenager, unique in the 1920’s. Her albums show the homes and rooms in which she grew up, as well as her friends. She established a babysitting business at 16 and pictured her charges. She taught piano lessons and photographed her students. She also snapped photos of the beaus she dated.

As a kid, I remember Mom stepping into a dark closet to change her film. If I put my hand on the outside doorknob, she’d shriek, “Don’t open that door! You’ll ruin my pictures!”

By the time I was grown, I knew photographs were important. Mom let us use her camera on occasion and bought each of us our own, encouraging us to chronicle life through a lens. Today I have the excess to prove I took her advice to heart.

I’d say 196 albums and 32 separate photo scrapbooks definitely constitute gluttony. Storage has been a challenge, particularly after we moved to a smaller house. I tried to pawn the albums off on several of our grown children, who take pictures religiously but store them on line. “Scan ‘em, Mom, and put ‘em all on a few disks. You’ll get your shelf space back.”

After studying that process, I know I don’t have enough hours left in life to complete that job. Besides, at the end of it, I’d still have to deal with the hard copies. Renting a dumpster just doesn’t seem right.

It’s interesting no one wants to house the albums, but everyone wants to page through them. When I make my next move, whether to an old folks home or heaven, the albums will be in jeopardy. Maybe our seven kids will divide them seven ways, though that would amount to 32 apiece, still a dilemma.

We’ve used many of our pictures to make greeting cards, as enlargements at parties, to prove tale-telling true or false, to remember who attended this or that event, and in this blog. Their most valuable use, however, is to insure we’ll never forget details. Photos of loved ones who’ve passed away become precious beyond description, and I’ve enjoyed studying Nate’s face in many of the albums since he died. The pictures remind me of all he’s done and who he was.

God has picture albums, too. He didn’t click a camera but described in visual detail the “photos” he wanted his “children” to remember. I counted 12 times he verbally reminded the Israelites of his parting of the Red Sea, a dramatic picture of power and creativity. “Don’t forget!” he’d say, as he reminded them he was still the same God.

He “showed” them his work during creation, how he provided manna in the desert, the patriarchs and their deeds and Christ’s work on the cross. These and many others were snapshots of history God wanted them (and us) to remember. In a way, the Bible’s 66 books are the albums, and their words are the pictures. On those pages, we “see” God and his truth. And just like in the Nyman albums, we see where we’ve come from. God’s photo collection also shows us where we’re going, which no earthly snapshots can do.

So, if the house catches on fire, I’ll try to grab our 196 + 32 albums, although it would be smarter (and quicker) to reach for the one album-set that truly matters, and that’s God’s.

“Give thanks to him who parted the Red Sea. His faithful love endures forever.” (Psalm 136:13)