To the right of my laptop here in the office sits a digital picture frame.  I didn’t know what such a thing was until my daughter gave me one for Christmas last year.  Do you know what it is?  It’s another form of a computer, near as I can tell.  It has memory of its own, or it can access photos from a USB flash drive, jump drive, thumb drive (whatever) or even from the memory chip of a digital camera.  Then it will cycle through all those pictures until the cows come home, or until some other notable event takes place.

 I loaded the photos of my students from India and other folks I met there on a memory device.  Amy gave me a whole bunch of shots of our family – Luana and me and her and her brothers and sisters-in-law along with those 7 grandchildren.  (We have a photo of the newest grandkid, but he or she is very small still and won’t actually appear in this world until August or September.)  So, as I sit here working, from time to time I glance over there to see who’s showing up.

Early last week it seemed that every time I did that Abby was in the screen.  Abby, most of you know, went to heaven almost four years ago.  While the pictures of her siblings and cousins reflect growth and change, Abby will forever be viewed as a beautiful brown-eyed blonde two-year old.  

I’m not normally effusively tearful or sentimental, but the dull ache that developed inside of me was real enough.  I sent e mail messages to Todd and Guinever to let them know that what I felt couldn’t compare to how they must still feel, and to let them know I was praying for them.  Then I bowed and told the Lord that I still don’t understand, and probably never will.

Many of you have had similar experiences.  You’ve laid the body of a loved one to rest, and time has marched onward.  But every once in a while your memory will be stirred.  It might be a photo, or a song, or a place.  It might be a family gathering that seems all at once incomplete.  Whatever it is, grief you thought had been buried as well is once again fresh.  

But, as the apostle wrote, we don’t grieve like those who have no hope.  As I looked at those pictures of my little granddaughter, the ache was tempered by the absolute certainty and joy that I will see her again.  I’m not required to understand.  I am required to trust in the word of a loving and powerful God.  

I pray that whatever your memory has thrust to the forefront of your mind this morning, you will be comforted with and by the Truth.