a grief observed

My grandfather, Robert Gene Thomas, passed away in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

Which is an uncomfortably sterile way of saying that my Grandpa Bob is now with Jesus.

It is sad, and we will miss him, and finding the right words to describe him to my children someday will be an impossible task.

BUT.

He is pain-free for the first time in 40 years. He has a new body. He is walking the streets of heaven unassisted, with no walker, no cane, not even a limp. He is praising God in the presence of God.

Today I will watch football and drink a Diet Mountain Dew in memory of Grandpa Bob, knowing that I would trade my reality for his in a heartbeat.

new territory

You can expect a longer post this weekend, after I've had time to process and be amongst family and loved ones. For now, I'll simply say that I'm headed to Colorado early in the morning to see this dear man and tell him how much I love him (because you can never say it often enough):

My college graduation, May 2009

Cousin David's wedding, June 2004

worship music does this to me

I've been thinking through a lot of heavy stuff lately. Heavy stuff like sin, guilt and shame, but also heavy stuff like forgiveness, redemption and the grace of God.

This is what I keep circling back to: we serve a good God.

He is righteous and He is just, and His righteousness and justice does not tolerate my sin. But because He is also good, He has provided a way that I can stand in His presence - His very presence! - blameless and pure in His sight, and that is through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

It doesn't take too long before that thought completely overpowers the heaviness of my sin, guilt, and shame. Which might be something akin to victory.

it's not about pity

If you have ever lived through a Minnesota winter, if you have children, if you have been to Africa, if you know what culture shock is, if you have ever seen a homeless person, if you have ever felt cold, if you strive to live missionally, if you want to do something practical to help your fellow man:

I NEED YOU.

My friends Samuel & Shola, and their two daughters, Esther (8) and Grace (2) relocated from Nigeria to Minnesota in August. (Do you know where this is going yet?)

Weather.com says Minnesota is going to get cold this week, with wind and rain.

Samuel and Shola and their daughters are not prepared for a Minnesota winter.

And for once, I can help. I know how to help.

But I need your help. They need winter clothes. All of them. And boots and coats.

MN Moms and Dads: Esther and Grace need the clothes your kids have outgrown. I don't have sizes for them, as their parents are unfamiliar with US sizing. From holding her, I would say little Grace is a 2T, maybe 3T. Esther is tall for an 8-year-old, but quite thin.

If you want to get on board with this, please email me at maggie.e.thomas@gmail.com. I'm going to check with the family on sizes and compile a list of what we have and what we need.

It's not about pity, it's about love. And right now, my Nigerian friends need some MN lovin'.

starry starry night

When you're a kid, you're pretty much at the mercy of your parents when it comes to musical tastes. Which isn't a bad thing at all; in fact, if your parents were really into the pop music of their day, having knowledge of MJ or Madonna or Prince or Springsteen might actually score you some points with your peers.

Except I was the kid who was all about Van Morrison and Billy Joel and Simon & Garfunkel and Tom Waits and Don McLean. Knowledge of these guys' music doesn't get cool again until you're about 18. And that's okay.

(Moral of that story: it does become cool again to love Simon & Garfunkel. Eventually.)

So my dad was really into folk music, and more specifically, sad songs. The first song I learned harmony for was this horribly depressing tune called "Souvenirs," a duet between Steve Goodman and John Prine. Best lyric of that one has to be: "Broken hearts and dirty windows / make life difficult to see." Suuuuper optimistic. Yet I loved it.

My brother and I were also big fans of "Goodnight Saigon" by Billy Joel, which critics called "poignant and harrowing." Jake and I called it the Helicopter Song because of the recordings of rotors at the beginning and end. The choice line from that song would be: "And we will all go down together / We said we'd all go down together." Nothing like establishing a sense of brotherhood at age 8.

Then there was "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)" by Don McLean. As in this Starry Night:

(Coincidentally, it happens to be one of my favorite paintings, too.)

The song first celebrates Van Gogh and then mourns the loss of his genius. It's poignant and sad in a way that makes you wonder what else you take for granted (besides, apparently, Vincent Van Gogh). Memorable lines include: "But I could have told you, Vincent, / This world was never meant / for one as beautiful as you."

As odd as it may be, that's our song, Dad's and mine. It's kind of strange, and not father-daughter-esque, but then again, "our songs" don't have to make sense to anyone but the people who make up the "our." (See also: Jake's and my love for Taylor Swift.)

About three months ago, on the way home from my cousin's wedding, "Vincent" came on the radio. Dad asked me if people will find it strange when we dance to it someday at my wedding. Obviously, he and I had never talked about "Vincent" being that song, but at that moment, it made a lot of sense. "Probably," I said, "But who cares? It's our song." And I think that's the way it should be.

Here's to songs that don't make sense and the people who make them special.

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.