This is a photo of my Great Uncle Lawrence Page. He was a younger brother of my grandmother – younger by 17 months. She had four other brothers, but none so close to her in age as her brother Lawrence.

Lawrence Page was born 108 years ago today, September 3, 1914. He died two years and seven months later on April 7, 1917. He was the son of John and Mabel Page, my great grandparents, and a sibling of John, Oliver, Louise, Russell, And Lester. All of his siblings lived to a ripe old age. My Grandmother Louise passed away only 11 years ago at the age of 98.

Russell was born on April 16, 1914, only nine days after Lawrence passed away. Can anyone imagine losing a son, and seeing another son born just nine days later? This was the cross that my Great Grandmother Mabel had to bear. According to Gail (Russell’s daughter): “I was told by Daddy and Aunt Louise that they thought he had pneumonia. You have to realize that penicillin wasn’t discovered until years later.”

My Grandmother Louise (known also as Grandma Honey within the family) was only four years old when Lawrence passed away. She was heartbroken, and grieved her loss for the rest of her life. She was only four years old at the time, but remembered the little guy well and would tear up, even in her last years, whenever she spoke about him. She always called him “my little buddy.” My father Lawrence Peter Keur, son of Louise, was named after Louise’s “little buddy.”

Lawrence Page lived for less than three years on this earth. Why do I take time to remember him over 100 years later? Because every life has value; every life makes its mark to one degree or another. I never knew my Uncle Lawrence, but I know something of him through my grandmother. Down through the decades, his memory, his impact, was preserved by my grandmother, and by others of his generation, and was passed along to the next generation, and the generation after that. A little guy, not yet three years old at his death: yet still his life resounds a century later.

Those who do not live near, or have never visited the Great Lakes, have no idea how powerful and dangerous these lakes are. I have lived within just a few miles of Lake Michigan all my life, and I’ve learned to have a “healthy respect” for the “Big Lake”–as it is known in these parts.

“Lake” is something of a misnomer, though, for those not familiar with Lake Michigan. It is an inland sea, with waves that are actually more dangerous than ocean waves because they are closer together. Conditions on the lake can change by the minute. Seas can go from calm to four-foot waves in nearly the snap of the fingers.

With this in mind, here are some things–for the uninitiated– that you can’t do on Lake Michigan:

1. You can’t see across it.
2. You can’t swim or kayak across it.
3. You cannot see Milwaukee or Chicago from Muskegon or Holland or anywhere else.
4. There is no bridge over it or tunnel under it.
5. There are no sharks or whales in it.
6. It is fresh water, not salt water.
7. You literally take your life in your own hands if you swim out over your shoulders without a life jacket on a calm day.
8. You literally take you life in your own hands if you put both feet in it on a red-flag day.

If you visit Lake Michigan, or any of the Great Lakes, take these words of advice: Have a healthy respect for the power and the danger of these “lakes.”

My father passed away on July 3, 2022. He was 86 years old. These are a few remembrances that I wrote that were read by my niece, Sarah, at his funeral on July 8. There is a hole in my soul that will never be filled. I loved that man.

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Growing up, I got to see a lot of the eastern United States. Dad took our family on a number of his business trips up and down the east coast. We visited many of the state capitols, the sites in Washington, DC, and other historical places. I think I owe my love of travel, and especially road trips, to Dad.

Not many people get to build a career working side-by-side with their father. I did—for 34 years. In the earlier years, Dad took me on sales calls and showed me the ropes. When he thought I was ready, he sent me out on my own. He was a mentor to me and gave me the confidence I needed to learn the business, and learn it well. In fact, I often think about this: Dad taught me everything I know about business. I would not be able to do what I am doing today, running my own business, if it were not for all that Dad taught me.

Dad was absolutely devoted to his family. As my kids were growing up, we took numerous trips to Disney World with Dad and Mom. They loved their grand-kids. In 1990, Dad and Mom took my wife Marlene and me on a trip to the Virgin Islands. I have wonderful memories of taking a Jeep, just the four of us together, through the back-country of the island of St John. As I remember, Dad and I took turns driving the muddy back-roads—and it was a blast!

In 2000, Dad and Mom took my family on a cruise to the Caribbean, and in 2009 they took Marlene and me on our trip of a lifetime to Alaska, which we saw by train and by cruise ship. Not much in life could be more exhilarating than rafting down a cold and swift river in Denali National Park, or landing in a helicopter atop a glacier with your wife and your Dad, or sitting on a cruise ship in Glacier Bay, Alaska, watching the majesty of a glacier calving with your Dad, your Mom, and your wife. Marlene and I were able to share these extraordinary experiences with my Dad and Mom, which makes these memories so very special.

Dad has given me wonderful memories to last the rest of my life. Dad was my strength; he was my rock, and he will be missed beyond measure. But in this I trust: That one day I will see him, Mom, and so many others of our family again, because of our belief in Jesus Christ, our redeemer and our friend.

This is a recently discovered photo of my mother and father in their late teens – a young couple in love and enjoying life. The photo is from early June 1955. They are aboard the S.S. Milwaukee Clipper en-route from Muskegon, Michigan, to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The Clipper plied Lake Michigan between the two ports from 1941 to 1970.

About the time of her 18^th birthday, which was June 5^th, Mom won two round-trip tickets aboard the Milwaukee Clipper from local radio station WMUS. About a week later, she graduated from high school. The couple planned to be married right after Mom’s graduation. It was in this short time between graduation and the wedding that they used the two tickets for a daytrip to Milwaukee aboard the Clipper. They had already been to the courthouse and had gotten their marriage license. In fact, Mom asked Dad if he had brought along the marriage license and suggested that they get married in Milwaukee! Dad had not brought the license. The marriage would need to wait a few days.

When they arrived in Milwaukee, they took a whirlwind bus tour around town, and came back to Muskegon later in the day. They visited, among other places, the Pabst Brewery, where Dad took his first and last sip of beer. He hated it, and that was the end of that.

The photo was taken at the base of the Clipper’s big smokestack . A couple they met said that Mom and Dad looked like honeymooners, and wanted to take their picture. The photo has been lost for many years, but recently turned up among the effects of Dad’s Uncle Russell in Richmond, Virginia. Just recently Dad’s cousin Gail (Uncle Russell’s daughter) came across the photo. How it ended up in Uncle Russell’s possession is a mystery. It it no mystery, however, that here is a picture of young love blossoming with a future of many years spreading out before it.

The second picture (below) is from a few years back, perhaps 2016 or 2017. Mom and Dad are seen from behind, holding hands as they walked out of a favorite restaurant and toward their car. When Mom passed away in 2018, they had been married 63 years and 9 days. That’s 23,020 days! And yet the last day was as the first day for them – still smiling and holding hands; still very much in love.

I helped a guy today who was riding his bicycle to work and had a flat tire on the bike path in front of my house.

Photo by Philipp M on Pexels.com

I was outside working on the lawn near the road, and he asked if I had a compressor with a new-type valve inflator that he could use. I told him I did not have that type of valve inflator, and he thanked me and continued on his way.

I stopped him about 20 feet later and said, “Hey where do you work?” He said about a half-mile away, just around the corner, at the foundry. I told him that my bike rack was still on the back of the car, and that I will load up his bike and give him a ride to work. He was grateful.

As we travelled to his workplace, we talked a bit, and he happened to mention that he just got out of the service. We arrived at work, unloaded his bike, and he thanked me for a big favor as he thought he was going to be late for work for sure. I told him that I like to help people out whenever I can, and I would hope that folks would do the same thing for my wife and kids if they ever needed assistance. Then I thanked him for his service to our country.

As he was walking away, I saw the back of his shirt. It read: “Operation Enduring Freedom.” In that moment, I realized that it was “he” who had done “me” the great favor, one that I could never repay. I think in the end that he was as much or more of a blessing to me today then I was to him.

Dear Mom,

Today is your birthday. Last year, we celebrated with a small cake and a card or two. The highlight of our evening together was your youngest great-grandson blowing out the candles with you, all the way from Texas, through a modern miracle of technology–video chat.

Not long after celebrating your 81st birthday, God summoned you at the time he had appointed from before the creation of earth. It was much too soon for those of us who love and cherish you. But it was His timing for you. I’m sure He looked down from heaven and saw the great pain and suffering that you had been enduring for many months, and which you were so willing to endure for the sake of your husband, your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. And he said, “Enough!”

So you were gently taken on angels’ wings to your new, eternal home—a place where there is no more pain, no more suffering, no more struggles, no more fears, no more tears. And you rest now in the arms of your loving Savior where someday we, your family, will also rest and rejoice in the work of our Lord and commune with you once again.

Mom, I did not know how deep human grief and loss could be before we lost you that night. I wonder everyday how things might have been different, how I might have been able to change this outcome. “What ifs” haunt my soul. But I know that God’s will and work always prevail, and “what was” is “what was destined” to be.

Mom, on the night you passed to your new life, Venus shone as brightly as I’ve ever see it in the clear summer sky. I took it as a sign from God that all was OK and as it should be. It was a small comfort to me as I drove those few short miles to do the hardest thing that I’ve ever done in my life: break the news to Dad that you where no longer here with us.

Mom, I love you more than I could ever adequately express in a few feeble words . But I believe you are at peace and at rest today in a land far away, awaiting our arrival, where our great reunion will be filled with love, and hugs, and celebration, and joy, all far exceeding our understanding today and our meager attempts to convey with pen and paper.

Rest in peace, Mom. I love you. Until we see you again.

Love,

Your Son, Mike

I received a phone call from my mom a while back. I picked up the phone and, without a moment’s hesitation, she started talking to me. It was clear that she was very anxious to speak. I don’t remember those first words, but I was both thrilled and confused to hear her voice. I interrupted her and said, “Mom, where are you calling from?” Without skipping a beat she replied, “I think I’m in heaven. And it’s beautiful!”

I was thrilled because anytime I hear my mom’s voice these days, it is a special experience. Confused because Mom passed away earlier this summer.

Of course, this was just a dream. But I was so startled that I abruptly woke up. At least two hours past before I fell back to sleep.

In the weeks following this dream, Mom has appeared in several other dreams. I’ve begun to recognize that I’m dreaming while I’m still in these dreams. But it doesn’t matter. They are so vivid, so real, and her voice so authentic and clear, that I just want to stay in each dream as long as I can, to converse with mom, to touch her, to hug her, and to tell her over and over that I love her.

Short of heaven, my dreams are as close to mom as I will ever be again. In that respect, my dreams are among God’s most precious gifts to me. I will cherish every one of these wondrous gifts.

What is left of mom on this earth are photos, the few physical things that were hers, the years of precious memories that I and so many others have of her, and the treasured dreams that I’ve had the past few months. And then there is the anticipation of many more dreams to come as the months and years stretch on ahead.

I now await my dreams with great expectation. And my dreams await me.

On a cold, rainy, miserable afternoon in Michigan, i.e., a normal April day, a young man’s thoughts turn to  baseball, street racing, and other, even more exciting pursuits.  Since I am not a young man, my thoughts turn to old-guy technology conundrums.

Thus, I would like to share Mike’s solutions for solving phone freezes, slow downs, and other issues. These solutions have been developed over many years of trial and error, blood, sweat, tears, and “ah ha” moments. Take each step in order. If one doesn’t work, move on to the next one.  You are guaranteed success–if not with steps one and two, then certainty with step three.

So here we go.  How to solve most any phone issue:

1. Shut down the phone. If that doesn’t work, then

2. Rip the battery out. Do this with conviction! And do it, preferably, with an audience. If that doesn’t work, then

3. Drive a stake through it!

If you end up working through the last step, it may not solve the problem. But it will definitely make you feel better about the whole situation.  And that is my measure for success!

I visited my grandmother’s grave today–as I do most years on her birthday.  She would have been 105.  We lost her in 2011 at the age of 98.

A long life such as hers has many advantages, especially for one who can maintain his or her health.  Grandma was active until the moment she died.  The day of her death, she walked from her apartment a couple of city blocks or more to the nearby Meijer store.  After doing some shopping, she walked back toward her house and stopped at a Burger King along the way for lunch.  Apparently, it was a typical Tuesday for her.  She was found late that afternoon by a neighbor.  She had collapsed in her bedroom, her coat still on and her shopping bag nearby.

It is often said of a person that he or she lived life on his or her own terms.  This was certainly true of my grandmother.  She lived alone and independent the last 30 years of her life.  She was an active senior citizen and fully engaged with her apartment community, her church, and her family.  She took a huge interest in her children and grandchildren, and was so proud of every one of their accomplishments–she was her family’s number one cheerleader.  Certainly, her family was her life.

Grandma was the family historian, telling stories of relatives and family life from years long gone.  She left a wealth of notes, letters, and newspaper clippings related to family members and friends.  I have the privilege to be the steward of much of this memorabilia, including the personal writings of her grandmother, Angela Matilda Donne Gibson.  She is the reason that I know so much about my paternal ancestors going back to Angela Gibson’s forebear, the great poet John Donne, who lived in the 16th and 17th centuries.

A few years ago, I did a series of video interviews with grandma in which she vividly and colorfully recalled some of the most interesting times of the early 20th century.  These videos are a family treasure today.

Grandma loved board games, she loved reading, and in her 80s and 90s she learned to use a computer, kept up with email, and had a Facebook page.  The Facebook page still lingers today.

It is said that those who remain in our memories never really die.  Grandma will, of course, remain in my memory for the rest of my life, and in the memories of my children and two of my grandchildren (her great great grandchildren) as well.  And as the years pass, as we relay stories of grandma to generations that follow, no doubt a part of her will remain alive here on earth for many years to come.

There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling.  It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle . . .

– from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” Washington Irving.

Autumn is the season of ghosts and goblins, of witches and witch’s brews, and of all manner of supernatural goings-on.  Halloween is in October for a reason.  As October keeps its annual appointment, nights begin to chill and leaves begin to turn their familiar hues of browns and yellows and reds.  Evenings shimmer in ever-earlier twilight; sullen smoke from a warming campfire rises in the distance on the edge of a woods.  The disturbed rustling of leaves in a barely-moving breeze—faintly illuminated by the clear, cold moonlit sky—somehow commands a greater attention at the crest of autumn than it would on a midsummer night’s evening.  It is at this time of the year that one finds himself in this land between the living and not-so-living, between the real and the imagined.  He may wrestle with unaccounted-for trepidation—perhaps outright fear—gripping his soul in a manner only possible in this season of unrelenting decay and unyielding march toward the dead of winter.

It is while thoroughly embedded in this backdrop that I took a long walk the other evening.  With the sun setting so much earlier now than just a few weeks ago, it is quickly becoming impossible to do the things I most love to do—things that require daylight hours well into the evening, namely kayaking and bicycle riding.  The kayaking is all but gone now, though I will extend it as far as I can into the shoulder season.  By November, my bicycle riding will be consigned to weekend afternoons, at least for as long as the weather holds out.  With any luck, I may be able to ride up to Thanksgiving.  In any case, I am slowly becoming resigned to the evening outdoor walk, the exercise of desperate last resort.

So I found myself walking along a country road that eventually lead me to a foreboding, unlit bicycle path.  The path rambled on for a couple of miles through an area of thinly-spread structures and sparse human habitation.  About half-way into the evening’s trek, I came upon a wooden bridge that traversed a nearly-forbidding marsh—a lowland of odious hospitality.  The bridge was long and narrow with vertical-slat railings on both sides; it had barely enough room for two bikes to pass in opposite directions.  On this evening, though, I was all alone—no bikes or walkers or joggers to be found anywhere.

As I started out across the bridge, my thoughts ran to Sleepy Hollow and Washington Irving’s vivid description of the headless horseman.  I had already stepped onto the bridge, affirming my commitment to cross it; so I continued on, quickening my pace and finding myself glancing over my shoulder with a neurotic frequency.  In my mind’s eye, I imagined the headless horseman at the foot of the bridge.  He sat upon the largest black horse I had ever seen.  Steam billowed from the horse’s nostrils, filling the evening’s cool air around the four-footed beast’s head.  The horse was chomping on his bit, barely restrained as he anticipated the command from his master to charge forward onto the bridge to terrorize the unfortunate soul that lay before him.

Of course, this scene played out only in the depths of my imagination.  The reality was that I never saw the headless horseman that night.  In spite of my preoccupation with him, he would have to wait for my dreams to make his horrific appearance.  However, the truth is that I did keep glancing over my shoulder as I crossed the bridge as quickly as possible.  For one never knows when his imagination may get the best of him!

Originally posted in October of 2010.  I thought it was worth a repeat.