All These Kids

One of few photos I have of my old house in Alaska

I never used to like kids. They annoyed me. For several months when I was 14 to 15 and super-selfish, my parents took care of a baby for a friend of theirs who had to be away in a hospital for cancer treatment. I mostly hid in my room with music cranked on the stereo I’d bought with my own earnings, to get away from the noise.

When any kids less than a few years younger than me tried to talk to me, I’d ignore them and walk quickly away. I know, how rude, eh?

Then, when I was 23, I met some amazing children who changed my outlook. They were so down-to-earth and enjoyable. One of them, a boy who was seven, always asked me to take him for rides on a Honda 4-wheeler, on the southeast Alaskan homestead of the folks on whose land we were living. We’d ride along in silence, find a beautiful spot to park, and wander around and talk and laugh. Sometimes we’d fish for spawned-out pink salmon off the edge of a wooden bridge over a creek.

My little friend and his older brother adored their baby sister. Their mother, an OB-GYN nurse with chestnut hair that reached past her waist, with whom I loved sitting and talking while gathering information for my own eventual motherhood, was soon to have another baby sister for them.

Within the year, I got married (albeit to a man who wasn’t lifetime material — see the long story here) and had my first child. We had moved into our own place, in a little house (24′ x 32′) we built for ourselves at the back of a gravel pit. We didn’t own the government land on which the house was situated, but we were there via a permit to be the caretakers of the business. As part of the permission, the house had to be moveable, and so it was built on skids (big logs laid on the ground) to later tow away.

Our nearest neighbours were 3.5 miles down old logging roads with nothing but forest between us. The other neighbours, on whose land we had been living prior to this, were 5 miles away and across a river that had no bridge. We had no phone but a VHF marine radio, we heated the house with wood, we pumped water uphill from a well with a Honda pump, and our electricity was from a 7-kilowatt Lister diesel generator we’d run for about six hours a day – just long enough to keep the fridge items cold and the freezer items frozen.

It was lonely out there, especially when the man of the house had gone out on the tugboat to deliver gravel or to do commercial fishing for the same boss. My motto soon became, “I have no friends, and so I will just have to make my own.”

My second baby was born within 17 months of my first. Then a couple years later my third was born. These children were a lot of work, yes, but they were and continue to be my dearest friends. Four more children later, and I’m a mother of seven now.

Not only are there my own children, though, but some of their friends have also become my friends. Some refer to me as “Mom 2”. I am honoured.

Here we are in December. Holiday time allows for more of my kids to be home. The oldest four are out working in other areas, but they come home when they get extra days off, sometimes with their respective partners whom I also love. With more people in the house, it is warm and pleasant, but oh so busy! The younger kids stop their usual activities when their beloved older siblings come home, so excited are they.

There is less time for blogging with all the family around, but I am going to keep trying to squeeze in a word or two or seven hundred when able. Like right now (word count: 695!), when most are sleeping-in on a Saturday morning and one has gone across the road to play with a friend.


If I Die…

For my loved ones – warm pie, a family favorite

Someday, maybe after I die, my kids might read through my blog and see this. I want to say here that I love all seven of you more than words can describe, and although I tell and show my love for you all the time, if there is any doubt, here it is in writing.

I also want to say that all the photos I have taken, videos I have made, and writing I have done in journals over the years is no indication of any favoritism. I would hate for any of my kids to feel I didn’t love them equally because there wasn’t as much record of them in one form or the other. Each one of you are tied for first place in my heart.

I am writing this on Friday, August 2, 2019. I will schedule this blog entry to be automatically posted on Tuesday, August 6, 2019.

I set it at 11:11 a.m. That is a special “TIME” of any day, of course, for us.

Why schedule it? Because I am planning to go on a two-night road trip tomorrow (which would be Saturday at the time of this writing) with my oldest daughter as she has an appointment and also wants to buy some things in the city that she can’t find up here. I don’t like to post on the internet about when I will be away, so by the time this publishes, I should already be back home…

Unless the Lord takes me to my forever home.

If I don’t return from my trip, may my remaining children know how dearly I love them. May they seek assurance through studying God’s word to know that faith in Jesus Christ alone is the only way to heaven. I want them to be with me there.

I want everyone who reads this to be there, too. I share the desire of God’s heart, which is that He is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.

Sincerely, with love,
Mom/Steeny Lou

Encouraging Young Writers

Someone else wrote this:


“When I was a child my fondness for writing was often met with smiles and praise, but rarely with helpful or genuine encouragement. In fact, when I announced that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, most people tried to talk me out of it. There’s no money in it, they would say. You can do it as a hobby, but you need a proper job. Luckily for me, their words never discouraged me. … (Continue reading)


When you are in a grocery store and you see something on the shelf that doesn’t fit in with the other items around it, if you are with someone, point at the item, and with amusement say “PTB!”

They might not know what you mean, so you will need to explain the following, about which I originally mused aloud to one of my children many years ago:

I can just imagine a kid carrying that box of chocolates around as their mom shops.

The kid asks, “Mom, can I get this?”

In an irritated voice, the mom says, “No! Put that back!”

The child says, “But I don’t know where it goes.”

The mom says in an even more irritated voice, “Just put it right there,” pointing at a blank spot between the dish soap and the Windex.

The child with sufficient common sense might realize that is not the correct spot and balk at the command.

The mom, in the most irritated voice she has left, says, “Ugh!” as she grabs the chocolates and tosses them on the shelf.

Since then, I’ve told variants of that story to all seven of my children, and even to a few friends outside the family, whenever we see something that is out of place on a grocery shelf.

“Put that back!” in a mock irritated voice is often shortened to a mere “PTB” in a smiling voice.

A PTB comes in all shapes and sizes. It could be a can of Pringles in the toilet paper section. It might be a bag of chewy banana candies sitting by the bleach. It’s possibly a jar of Bick’s pickles beside the motor oil. It could even be a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup in with the scented jar candles (though I don’t know if anyone would realistically want to carry a can of that soup around for any length of time, so it could be assumed it was a small child too young to realize what it was).

I draw the line, however, at seeing cold items in a warm section. If time and energy permit, I will usher a carton of cashew milk to its proper refrigerator, and if a container of Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Toffee Crunch should appear in an inappropriate location and isn’t melted, I would more than likely have to add it to my cart for purchase. Waste not, want not.

Next time you are in a store and you see something out of place, think of my little story. If you can, please take a picture and send it to me.

Below is a photo of a PTB I saw yesterday at a local grocery store. 🙂

Happy shopping!

See the PTB? It’s a stuffed animal among toilet cleaning supplies.

We Are Unschoolers

We are unschoolers here.

With my older kids, we were relatively rigid, with textbooks, workbooks, lots of reading and writing, etc.

With my youngest three, it’s a whole different lifestyle. For one thing, I’m no longer with the abusive ex, who demanded that the kids get high “grades”, and if they didn’t, we all paid for it.

For another thing with my youngest three (currently aged 10, 7, and 6), I was working from home full time, getting very little sleep, and was constantly exhausted. There was no way I could squeeze in “book work”, so unschooling became very appealing as an option. (Public school isn’t something I’d ever consider. I have lots of reasons.) The more I looked into it, the more fascinating it became to me, and pretty soon I realized that was what we were doing. It was and remains a lifestyle of learning, even though I can no longer work due to fibromyalgia and other health concerns landing me on Canada Pension Disability.

As for what a typical day looks like around here…

My kids usually get up before me, around 7-8 a.m. I’ve got their computers set to come on at 9:00 a.m., so prior to then, they eat (they’re all capable of getting their own food now, yaaaay! In prior years, I fed them breakfast, of course, but I was up earlier for work, too.) They can watch TV (we don’t have cable) or movies, or just hang out together and hopefully not fight, because if they fight, Mom gets mad, and they don’t like that.

It’s hard for me to get up, as I wake up stiff and in pain most days. The kids know that, and if they need me, they’ll come up and talk to me, often just coming in for a hug, a kiss, a smile, and to share some sweet words. I’m usually out of bed between 9 and 10, and then it’s cleaning, cooking, bill-paying, phone calls, and the rest of the business of a household. If there’s a lot of mess, I get the kids involved in helping.

Once the computers come on, they’re all over Roblox, Club Penguin, Minecraft, and a few other games they enjoy. I’ve had some programs for them that are particularly education-oriented, and they’ve enjoyed them, but the games are good learning for them, too. They communicate with other players, and they extend their reading and spelling efforts in order to do so. Many times a day, I’m asked how to spell one thing or another. If it’s too many letters, I’ll write it for them in a notebook they each have.

In good weather, the kids play outside in the yard. We live sort of out in the country-ish with an acre of land surrounded by hundreds of acres of rolling hills that is part of an old ranch but is now a community pasture. The kids play on the trampoline any time of year, even sometimes when it’s covered in snow.

My 10-year-old and 7-year-old sons are diagnosed as being in the autism spectrum. It’s not that big of a deal, as they’re high functioning, but with the diagnosis, we get some funding, so for a few hours a week, we have a behaviour interventionist who comes to take them out to do things in a program designed by a behaviour consultant. The boys usually go one at a time with her, but occasionally they go together.

The only “schoolish” thing we do is reading lessons, and even that is something I have not pushed too hard. With my 10-year-old, he wasn’t getting the hang of reading by the age of 8, and so I took him to get assessed because his daddy has dyslexia and we were concerned he might have it, too. The tester said that yes my son had dyslexia and that she could help him with a special reading program, and the costs would be covered by the place where we are enrolled for home-school (here in BC, Canada, that’s the rules – you just have to be registered somewhere, and depending on where you register – or if you enroll, which is more work – there is a bit of reporting to do, but not much).

So, we did that reading program via Skype for an hour a day, and within three months, that son was fully reading. Maybe he didn’t have dyslexia after all? I don’t know, but he has no trouble sounding out even unfamiliar words now, and deducing their meanings by the context in which they appear.

That reading program is something I can now use with my other kids, as we have the materials and the teacher’s outline. I have done a bit of it with them, plus some other reading lessons, and I’d like to do more, but my health is up and down. If I can’t get myself to work on it more, I’ll use some of the homeschool funding next year to do it the Skype way with the teacher.

I’ve read about some unschoolers not even wanting to teach their kids how to read, but as for me, I don’t feel comfortable leaving it up to them to figure it out.

Oh, and there’s math. We have a set of books called “Life Of Fred”, which are stories I read out loud, usually while snuggled up on my bed, with my kids. The stories have math lessons woven into them, but they are so entertaining, the kids don’t even consider them to be “school”. Because we usually do Life Of Fred as a bedtime story, it is another excuse for the kids to get to stay up later, so I suspect they also enjoy it because of that.

Our days always end with “tucking in”. Usually, I go to each child’s bedside, but when I’m too worn out, they’ll come to my bed and tuck me in. We giggle over our inside jokes. We do some hugs, some kisses, sometimes some prayers, and we always finish with “I love you” and “I thank God for you”.

About My Dad’s Death

(Copied from a Note I posted on Facebook yesterday).

(Unfortunately, the formatting didn’t copy into here properly and refused to fix despite my efforts.)

Saturday, November 8, 2014
At this point, I don’t have all the details surrounding the death of my father, who was born in a small village in Serbia in 1932. I am told he died on Monday. I just found out yesterday.
Yesterday, I drove the 2-1/4 hours to Kamloops alone for an appointment and some shopping.

Shortly after 4:00 pm, I came out of Target at Sahali Mall. I put my purchased items into my car, returned the cart, and kicked back in the driver’s seat. There was WiFi there, so I looked at my phone. There was a message from my sister, which said:

“I have some really sad news. Dad died on Monday. Frieda just phoned me and told me this today. I have been trying to phone you. Phone my home number when you get a chance to.”

I didn’t feel sad. I felt shocked. I’d long ago lost touch with him, so it was more like hearing of the death of someone else’s father. I suddenly thought of the part in a favorite movie, “Smoke Signals”, which I had just watched the night before, where Thomas says, “Hey, Victor. I heard about your dad.”

Why would I only be hearing about my dad’s death five days after the fact? I’ll get to that.

My dad has always been confusing to me. I knew a bit about him, from partial stories he revealed while he was drunk (which he was quite frequently during the years I knew him). Like, why did his dad die when my dad was in his early teens? Why was my dad in prison – twice – in his home land of Serbia? Why did he refuse to have anything to do with any of his family in the Old Country since he left there in the early 1950s? Why did he get so mad at me when I made contact with some of his relatives in the early 1990s? And why did he never return my calls when I tried reaching him between 2006 up till this past year?

I’m thinking that the stories I imagine are probably worse than what really happened, but I may never know.

After I got the message from my sister, I replied to ask how he died. She didn’t have much news herself, briefly explaining that she’d gotten a phone call yesterday afternoon from Frieda, a long-time friend of my dad’s, to let her know of his death, and that it somehow involved him having fallen, resulting in cracked ribs and a hospital stay, and while healing up from that, he died.

I went about the rest of my errands in Kamloops, lost in thought. I walked into London Drugs thinking, “Hey, everyone. My dad just died. How’s YOUR day?”

I drove home, thinking about my dad often. Lots of memories came to mind and I shed some tears. The first time was while listening to “Let It Be” by The Beatles. My dad always hated the Beatles and would make fun of their music. The other time was while listening to the guitar solo in the Metallica song “Master Of Puppets”. I remembered when that song was new in the mid 80s, I was doing a crazy aerobic workout to it while drinking with my dad. Not that he liked that music, but it was a memory that popped into my mind, how he didn’t care WHAT music I cranked when he was drunk.

I’ve not seen my dad since August of 2005, when I had gone down to Point Roberts, WA, and drove by the lot he had on Panorama Drive. He got to meet my fifth child, who was a year old at the time. I got a picture of my dad holding him. I treasure that.

My dad never did meet my fourth child, nor my sixth and seventh children.

The daughter of one of my dad’s old friends told me she had run into my dad in 2005 and he was annoyed at me for having so many kids, quoting him as having referred to me as “a baby machine”.

Today I phoned Frieda. I’d tried calling her a few times over the past couple years since I last talked to her, but it always just rang and rang. No answering machine picked up so I couldn’t even leave a message. Thankfully, she answered today, and she filled me in on the details surrounding my dad’s death.

Apparently, my dad had fallen in his apartment. (He lived in the same apartment since 1991, where the Pillars Inn used to be in Tsawwassen, since he sold our family’s old house after my mom left him – the house he’d built for us in 1976.) He’d phoned Frieda and asked her to call an ambulance for him. He was taken to Delta Hospital, but they sent him home after two days.

A few days later, my dad called Frieda again, saying he was in a lot of pain, and so again an ambulance was called. This time, they found that my dad had some cracked ribs. They got him a brace that he was to wear while his ribs healed up.

Frieda had gone to see my dad on Saturday, November 1. She said he seemed fine as they walked the corridors, although he did seem a little cranky.

The next day, Frieda got a call from the hospital. They informed her that my dad was in the Emergency room and was unconscious. Details were sketchy. Frieda couldn’t sleep, being worried about him. At 1:30 on Sunday morning, she got a call saying that he had quietly passed away. Frieda isn’t sure of the exact cause but said it might have been a septic condition from being in hospital. She tells me that the medical staff made him comfortable and that he died peacefully.

Frieda had gone to my dad’s apartment to try to find a phone number for my sister or me. She couldn’t get out there till Friday due to other commitments, and that is why we didn’t hear about my dad’s death till five days later.

Now I am trying to figure out the business end of things. Frieda tells me that I am the executrix of his will, and that my sister and I are the beneficiaries. Frieda had gone to my dad’s apartment and tried to find the original will, but couldn’t locate it.

I plan to head to Tsawwassen in the next week to pack up his stuff and deal accordingly with it. I’ll have to insure my Suburban, as well as the utility trailer my dad had given me years ago when he was still talking to me.

I hope it doesn’t snow before I get down there and back. It’s about a 6-hour drive.

I’m not sure if or when/where we’ll have a memorial service. If we do, I will post an update, for anyone who knew my dad, or who knows my sister and/or me, and would like to be there.

Anyone else who’s been through the loss of a family member might have some thoughts to share. If so, please, feel free.

Anyone who has any memories of my dad, I’d love to hear them, no matter how small or large, good or bad.

To everyone who expressed their condolences on my Facebook wall and in private conversation, I say a huge thank you. I am touched by all the caring. It means a lot to me.

My dad with my son, Charles, in August 2005, in Point Roberts, WA.

^ My dad with my son, Charles, in August 2005, in Point Roberts, WA.
The last time I saw my dad, at his lot in Point Roberts, WA, in August, 2005.^ The last time I saw my dad, at his lot in Point Roberts, WA, in August, 2005.
This is how I remember my dad: wearing a mack jacket and working with wood. He was a carpenter. This picture is from 1978, at the house he built for our family.^ This is how I remember my dad: wearing a mack jacket and working with wood. He was a carpenter. This picture is from 1978, at the house he built for our family.
My mom and dad with me as a baby in 1967. I'm pretty sure he was drunk in this picture. That's one of his drunk looks.^ My mom and dad with me as a baby in 1967. I’m pretty sure he was drunk in this picture. That’s one of his drunk looks.
 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
Soon after I posted this, a lady I’ve known since high school, who works at the grocery store where my dad shopped, privately messaged me, saying this:
I read your post about your dad. I went up to him about 8 yrs ago and said I didn’t realize he was your dad. He told me the same thing you wrote, that he didn’t talk to you because you had too many kids. You did nothing wrong and you can’t blame yourself for this. We love our dad’s but they can be a little different…mine too.”
 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
Some things just make no sense. Still, life goes on. Really, I’m doing okay. I have a lot of love in my life. The absence of my dad’s love and of his life don’t change that.

When My Son Went Missing


Photo: My front yard, 8:30 a.m., January 30, 2013

At 7:45 a.m., I woke up and realized my boys were abnormally quiet, so I went to check on them.

My eight-year-old son was fast asleep, but my five-year-old was not in his bed.

I climbed the ladder to the loft in their room and looked for him there.  I did not find him.

I checked the girls’ room. I did not find him.

I checked all over the middle floor. I did not find him.

I checked everywhere I could see in the basement.  I did not find him.

I was still half asleep, barely standing upright, stumbling around the house, searching in every room, closet, and cupboard, lifting up blankets, looking behind and beneath furniture, gently calling my son’s name so as to not awaken my other kids, but panic was starting to set in and I raised my voice a little.

I felt a mixture of anger and fear, but strangely I was mostly calm.

That might have been shock.

After combing the entire house twice, I called the neighbours.  He had wandered over to their place a couple times before in the summer, but the snow this time of year is well over his boots so I doubted he’d go through the field.  Still, I left them a message just in case.

I tried to reach my husband at the mill where he works, but it is a noisy environment and he doesn’t keep the cell phone on him.

I called the mill’s office and they tried to reach a foreman, but nobody answered.

While I continued to re-search my house, I called 911.

Within minutes, a police officer was at my door.

Soon, another officer showed up.

Then a third, and a fourth, and I’m not sure if there were more in that blur of blue uniforms.

There were two RCMP cruisers and an RCMP pickup truck parked in my yard.  A third cruiser was out on the street in front of my property.

One officer informed me that a police dog was being brought down from a town an hour away.

Cops were all over my house, my yard, and my quiet semi-rural street, searching for my son.

I called my husband’s work again, letting them know it’s urgent and that our son was missing.

A few minutes later, my husband phoned me.

“I can’t find J anywhere,” I told him.  “When did you last see him?”

“He came into the kitchen around 5:00 this morning,” he said.  “I told him to go back to bed, and he headed up the stairs, but I didn’t follow him, as I was leaving.”

We exchanged words of horror, shock, fear, and prayer.

“Well, I guess I’ll just finish the shift,” he said, but I could hear the worry in his voice.

“Yeah, there’s no point coming home.  There’s probably nothing you can do, either,” I told him. “But as soon as he shows up, if he shows up, I will call you.”

My eight-year-old son and my three-year-old daughter were now awake and involved in the hunt for their brother.

“Check the deep freeze,” I told my son.  “I haven’t looked there yet.”

My 18-year-old daughter heard us and also joined the search.

Tromping through the snow in my yard, I called and called for my son.

I alternated between uttering whispered cuss-words through my teeth and softly begging God to please keep my little boy safe, and that we may find him.

I went back inside and up to the middle floor, where I suddenly heard the cheerful voice of my three-year-old daughter shouting in the basement, “I found him!”

Not sure if she was just playing around, I ran to her, my heart racing, and demanded, “WHERE?  Where is J?  Show me!  SHOW ME!”

She led me to a closet, where I’d checked a few times already.

She had to have been kidding.

She reached into the bottom of the closet and pulled back a pile of egg-carton bed foam.

She sang out, “He’s right here, Mama!”

And yes, there he was, peering out with a mischievous grin.

It was 8:30 a.m.  I had been hunting for him for 45 minutes.

I was relieved, but I was also angry.

“J!  You must NEVER hide on Mama again.  DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

“I was just playing hide-and-seek,” he said, trying to act innocent.

My boy didn’t seem to have any idea how serious this was.

“You stay right there,” I told him as I ran outside to talk to the cops.

“We found him,” I said.  “But you guys can take him, I’m so mad at him.”

They wanted to see where he’d been.  One officer said he had looked in there with his flashlight and did not see him.

All the cops looked sternly down at my son.  There were no smiles on their faces.  Two of them gave him a short but serious talk.

My son stood there with his arms crossed, trying to look tough, putting on a fake scowl.

I thanked the police and they went on their way.

I was about to call my husband to let him know all was well, but he called me first.

I called and left a message with the neighbours, and then I called the Child & Youth Mental Health clinician to leave a message for her to call me.

Then I called my son’s Behavior Consultant (he has a diagnosis in the autism spectrum, high functioning, with symptoms of ADHD, so we have government funding to cover her costs).

The BC told me she would contact a colleague of hers who might have some other ideas, but that until we hear back from her, I should have my son sit in a chair right beside my desk while I work so he cannot be out of my sight.

If he has to go to the bathroom, I would have to go with him.

He can eat his meals right beside me, and he will be watched with the video monitor when in his room for a nap.

His Behavior Interventionist, who works with him two hours a day, three days a week, came over, and he was allowed to work with her, but when he was done, he was in the chair.

Any time my son tried to talk, I said in an even voice, “No talking.  You are sitting there because what you did this morning was very bad, and you must never hide from Mama again.”

As I write this, he is having a nap, but when he gets up, he will return to the chair until bedtime.  Our only discussion will involve reminding him how important it is that he stay in bed, except for toileting, until he is told by his dad or me to get up.

Before the cops had left, I had taken a picture of the three police vehicles in my yard.  I posted it on my facebook wall, and then went to make breakfast.

My 15-year-old daughter saw the picture and called from her dad’s house nearby, asking what’s up.

When I told her about J having to sit in “the trouble chair”, she said, “That should be ‘a thing’.  We should call it ‘The Trouble Chair’.”

She also suggested that we decorate the chair by drawing teeth on it, and that we should paint it black, or red, to make it look scary.

I said, ‘Yeah, and we can write words on it, like, “HA HA.”

She said, “And draw arrows on it, like they’re pointing at whoever is sitting in it.”

She also added, “We can put Velcro on it, and make a pair of Velcro pants for the person to wear when they sit in it.”

I said, “Yes!  So it makes it harder for them to get up.  I like it!”

We had some fun with it, but realistically, for now, The Trouble Chair just has a name.

I hope we won’t have to use The Trouble Chair very often, preferably never again, but knowing my kids, I’m not sure that’s likely.

j and me apr 2012c_edited-2a (2)

J and me, spring 2012

(This post also appears on my other Holy Sheepdip blog at Blogger).

Thinking about something and then it happens

I experience this a lot, but today it happened to my eight-year-old son.

He told me, “Mom!  ‘Big and Small‘ is on TV!  I was just thinking about it, thinking, ‘Hmm, I wonder if Big and Small’ will ever be on,’ and then there it was, right after ‘My Little Pony’!”


I marveled, “Wow, that’s so cool!  I remember I used to watch that with you sometimes.  I didn’t know it was still on.  When did you last see it?”

He said, “At the hotel.”

That would’ve been at least last August.

So, he randomly thought about the show, and then suddenly there it was.

I love it when that happens.

I don’t know if there’s a name for that, but if there isn’t, there should be.

Tears of love from my 8-year-old son

My dear, precious, eight-year-old son has such a sensitive heart.  Tonight, as I was tucking him into bed, he had tears in his eyes as he said he was worried about the end of the world.

I told him that the Bible says nobody knows the day nor the hour when Jesus is coming back, but that He will be coming back.

I comforted him by reminding him that if Jesus came back even right now, we’d all suddenly be together in heaven – Daddy wouldn’t be at work but he’d be right there in heaven with us, and all his siblings would be there too… except, I’m not sure about my oldest daughter, and we pray for her in that regard.

I told him that all the people who help out at the kids program he goes to in the summertime at the local church would be there, and I named some of them that I know.

He seemed relieved, but then he squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “What about Gramma?”

I said, “Yes, Gramma will be there. Gramma loves the Lord.”

He asked, “What about Grampa?”

I said, “I don’t know. I’ve not talked to him in a long time. He has his personal problems and doesn’t want to talk to me, but last I knew, he didn’t love the Lord.”

And then my little boy’s tears fell so painfully down his cheeks as he thought about my dad not being in heaven.

I said, “We can pray for him right now.”

I held his hand and we prayed for my dad’s salvation.

When we were done praying, he tried to be strong and said, “OK, I need to stop thinking about this. Let’s talk about something else.”

My dear, tender-hearted little boy has so much love in him and a double-dose of HSP (highly sensitive person), with both parents being that way.

I pray that he will always trust the Lord as innocently as he does now.