There is a countdown on. There’s always been a countdown on, but I haven’t been so keenly aware of it. Between counts, I go and touch him, feeling his broad shoulders and firm skull against my fingertips and my shoulders. Feeling his hard head against my soft cheek, his soft hair against my hard cheekbone. I touch him and know that the countdown will take him from me eventually. And then I will long for the sensation of a dad I can touch and talk to and laugh with. Even with the Parkinson’s dementia, his face lights up when he sees me and he asks why I’ve been gone for so long. I brush off the “so long“ because it’s only been a few days, but hospital time counts on a different scale entirely. I imagine the days unfold very strangely when you are not only in a sterile hospital environment – he certainly knows that one well – but counting via hallucinations and confusion, the neurons not firing as they used to. I know that truth feels very bendy right now, it’s quite the haze of dreams and memories, old office coworkers, needed phone calls, papers that are due, classmates from college, children and their spouses. And Claudia, always Claudia.
Today I touch and give thanks for the touch. And then lament the slipping past of time and abilities. This feels like it might last forever. This feels like it might be over way too soon. It’s a life of contradictions, all with a ticking clock.
I noticed that I often send loved ones photos of myself. I recently clarified with Jeremy that I don’t do this because I look particularly great in the shot but because I want a witness to this moment. I realized this habit of mine could look like a vanity project and I also noticed that others rarely felt the need to send me photos of themselves. But over time I think I’m swaying Maralee to do the same. It’s the shared experience thing. It’s the I WAS HERE thing. It’s the documenting of a particular moment in time that feels, for whatever reason, notable. It’s saying, “I love you and I want you to know me. All of me. The good, bad, and the ugly amen.”
Writing is also a way of documenting my days. But writing, the habit, the love of it, the words words words came along much earlier than photography. I often say that I was born into my brother Adam’s world. He set the pace and the pattern of childhood in the Lawton household and I followed him in many, many ways—reading was just one of those ways. Mom and Dad couldn’t discipline us by sending us to our rooms because we loved to read so much that alone time was a cherished gift. I’m sure that my parents and Adam read to me before I could do it myself, and then I learned to do it myself quite early. I never stopped loving to read. Somewhere along the way my soul knew how words should link together to make phrases, sentences, and paragraphs, and then I never stopped loving to write. I’ve had quieter phases of life where the words don’t spill as readily, and I’ve also had seasons of abundance where my brain cannot quit creating. I’ve heard that fiction writers have characters rolling around in their minds. I’m a non-fiction writer. There aren’t made-up stories spilling out of me, but the real moments of life are tossed around, reformulated, captured in poetry and hilarity and shared experiences and poured out through my fingers. I have always been like this.
Writing and photography make great companions, as seen here in over 25 years of captured thoughts.
Writing and photography declare, for me, I WAS HERE and LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT IT.
Writing and photography are a part of me, like a spigot I can’t figure out how to shut off but truly I wouldn’t turn it off even if I could because that would feel like placing a dam where one should never exist. I’m meant to flow like a river. It’s nice to have you here if you want to float with me.
Dad sneezed in the sunshine. In these past three years where he willingly-but-sadly gave up driving, I noticed the sneezes more than ever. Our car rides often began with a sneeze, a digging for a pair of sunglasses in his newly-acquired man bag, an “oh well!” if the glasses couldn’t be located, and then another digging in my car for a spare pair of his daughter’s sunnies. We both had large noggins (for all the many amazing thoughts in our brains!) so sunglasses could be shared.
When Andrew and I cleaned out Mom and Dad’s car to pass on to our nephew Noah we found roughly 77 pairs of Dad-sunnies stashed away.
During Dad’s last year of car rides with me we eventually stashed a pair of his glasses in my passenger door. I can be remarkably unsentimental about possessions, but this particular manly pair of sports sunnies HAS to stay put. It’s a touch of normalcy I’m not ready to let go of, a teeny bit of my dad that is still riding shotgun.
I’m not ready to comb through my social media posts to re-post them here.
Not quite ready to see the lovely comments and stories from those who knew and loved and admired my dad.
I’ve been replaying the events of early October 2026 over and over in my head, vainly trying to understand and come to terms with the moment Dad “shuffled off his mortal coil.” Mostly I roll over in bed, coming close to the surface of sleep after the end of a REM cycle and BAM! There it is, thoughts of death and love and weirdness and faith-becoming-sight. It’s all confusing and good and bad and twisted up inside of me still.
Someday I’ll add more in this space. Until then, here is my beloved Daddy’s obituary. Image and words are mine. (I haven’t called him Daddy in probably over 40 years but it’s been coming to mind more since he got promoted to Glory on October 7.)
David Pierce Lawton, age 78, of Lincoln, Nebraska, stepped into the presence of his Lord and Savior on October 7, 2026.
Born on February 18, 1948, in Santa Barbara, California, David lived a life of servant leadership as he followed Jesus Christ. Born to John and Mary Lawton, David looked up to his big sister Ruth and in turn was looked up to by his younger brothers John, Steve, Tom, Tim, and Mike. David is fondly remembered for his kindness, warmth, and generosity by many who knew him at Wheaton Academy, Covenant College, the University of Nebraska, churches and hospitals in Florida, Georgia, California, Oregon, and Nebraska, and by his nursing colleagues, nursing students, and patients along the way.
David absolutely cherished his college sweetheart Claudia Jones Lawton and was pleased to provide for her, honor her, and love her for every moment he had on this earth. David and Claudia raised their three children to be critical thinkers, lifelong learners, and compassionate, service-oriented human beings. He is survived by his wife of 54 years, Claudia, son Adam, daughter Rebecca (Jeremy), son Andrew (Jenny), and beloved grandchildren Livia, Harley, Noah, Pierce, and George. He leaves behind all of his siblings and their much-loved spouses, nieces and nephews who all wish they could hug him one last time.
A family-only private graveside service will be held soon. Memorial gifts may be given to Samaritan’s Purse International Relief.
On any given day you might find me muttering, “Yep, jars of clay.”
“That’s right, jars of clay.”
[a knowing nod] “Jars of clay.” [a slight shake of the head] “Jars of clay.”
It’s become a statement of understanding where I now know myself and I see the world a little more clearly than I used to.
We have this treasure in jars clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. – 2 Cor 4:7-9
2 Corinthians 4 is so good, all of it. But the jars of clay lines resonate with me as they create a wonderful picture of our place in God’s world. As Christians we know and trust that God has a purpose and plan for our lives (Eph 2:10, Jeremiah 29:11). We also know that God has generously given each of us gifts to use for His glory (Romans 12, 1 Corinthians 12). However, when it comes down to the practical day-to-day application of these gifts, we’re often lost or overwhelmed. Where do we start? What if we mess up? What if we don’t measure up? Will we let down God? Will we let down others? And inevitably, some of us will quit before we’ve even started. Using our gifts feels daunting.
Launching a non-profit ministry is daunting. I’ve discovered deep–and shallow!–layers of perfectionism inside of myself. My list of “shoulds” in order to be a decent human being is absolutely ridiculous. It’s exactly the kind of thing that makes a person want to go back to bed and forget that the rest of the world exists. Enter 2 Corinthians 4 and this current version of myself who wanders around town thinking, “jars of clay!”
The cracks we all bear are not unknown to God. 2 Corinthians 4 makes that very clear: we all have cracks. We are these precious treasures, each sculpted and formed by a Creator who lovingly built us (Isaiah 64:8) and WE HAVE CRACKS. We’re pitchers that are a bit leaky. We’re cereal bowls with a chipped rim. We’re airtight containers that have lost our perfect seals. We’re kintsugi (look it up and check out Makoto Fujimura while you’re at it) and we’re still beautiful, still treasured, still commissioned to use our gifts for God’s vast kingdom.
Jars of clay.
It’s an acknowledgement that we’ve sinned, all of us, and fallen short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). It’s the truth that not even one of us measures up to a list of “shoulds.” It’s the beautiful reminder that while we’re lined with cracks God’s glory through Jesus is shining so brightly that it cannot be dimmed. We are not to lose heart, fellow Christians. Take comfort in your God who is renewing you day by day.
It never stops. It never takes a break. It never fades off my radar. It sticks to me like my skin, like humidity, like the mosquitoes and gnats and biting flies on my back patio on this late August morning. Everything I do, I do it with diabetes.
I’m tired.
If I go for a walk I go as a woman with diabetes. It might be a long walk and I go with diabetes. Short walk, I still go with diabetes. Hot walk in the August air, still diabetes. Treadmill walk in my air-conditioned home, still doing it with diabetes. Walk with one friend, diabetes.
Walk with one friend and five dogs, still diabetes. Walk with my students through the woods, counting each body, making sure no one is left behind? I’m still a woman with diabetes. A walk through a zoo, weaving among the smells and calls of monkeys and macaws and hippos? Still me, still with diabetes. Sitting on the couch for hours, reading and writing, living the sedentary student’s life? It’s me over here. And lo and behold, the diabetes is with me.
I can eat a salad, and I’m mentally weighing the carbs from the dressing (looking suspiciously at you, lemon poppyseed dressing) and I just know those cranberries, as delicious as they are, will wreak havoc on my blood sugars. I can eat a bowl of cereal and watch my blood sugars skyrocket. I can eat nothing at all and drink sugar-free Gatorade all day long, maybe accented by a cup of steaming chicken broth, but I’m still eyeballing my numbers while gulping colonoscopy prep and pounding down the Zofran so nothing comes back up. I’m doing colonoscopies (hello, late 40’s). With diabetes.
I am a parent, waking up at night to change the diaper of my baby. I am a parent with diabetes. I am a gardener, reaching through late season spiderwebs to collect red fruit and I observe, feel proud, collect my treasures–and I’m a gardener with diabetes. I was a bride in white, entirely overwhelmed and entirely joyful to meet my groom, and I did it with diabetes. I’m a deaconess. I’m a lay counselor. I’m a grad student. I’m a teacher. I’m a director of a non-profit. I have diabetes.
I carried my bulky purse into my college cafeteria when most girls were swinging lanyards, their hands and arms empty. I was just a kid with diabetes. I wasn’t confident.
I went to fun parties in San Francisco, balancing on heels, feeling real cute, holding the smallest clutch I could get away with. Streamlining meant one bag of Skittles, my ID, a credit card, a broken down glucose meter, and a promise from my lifelong partner-date-husband to secure sweets for me if my Skittles ran low. Everyone else fully enjoyed the open bar. I downed Diet Pepsi after Diet Pepsi, truly no need for alcohol with my extroverted zeal empowered by everyone else having a good time. I was a diabetic at a party. Normally I’m a diabetic not at a party.
I’ve been both a camper and a camp counselor, surrounded by pines and dry air in the Sangre de Cristo mountain range, absolutely wrecked by altitude sickness. Driving hours in the dark to the closest pharmacy for more of a product I’d only use when ill. My campers were so worried about me. I was worried about me. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. Still, people who loved me were worried. I got better eventually. Diabetes was a constant.
I ate a fairly pink hamburger and lots of onion rings on a drive to a girls’ trip, resulting in some GI situation that wasn’t pretty. Diabetes was the ringer, the star of the show, the reason why we drove 20 minutes east–me with the airbnb trash can in my lap–to a teeny tiny ER for fluids. There’s a bigger story hidden within this blurb that I’m still not ready to tell, but my ever-present situation of diabetes made it all very interesting. I spent the next few days carefully eating bread, talking to God in the starry night of the Kansas prairies. I cried with my friends. I laughed with them. They loved me well.
I’ve turned down opportunities. I’ve said yes. I’ve denied my actual limits while enacting false limitations. I’ve been brave. I’ve been panicked. I’ve been brave and panicked all at once.
The big joke for us diabetics is that we’ve all been told there will be a cure to type 1 IN FIVE YEARS. I was told this factoid in 1994 as a 16 year old. Others have been lied to as well in 2025. The hope of a cure is costly costly costly. Sometimes I hate hope. Yet I am still hopeful.
A life without diabetes clinging to my every move?
Intense winds beat against our house last night and I woke up this morning to yet another branch down on Joe. Say it ain’t so, Joe!
Joe is our pet name for the Kentucky Coffee Tree we lovingly selected and planted in our city’s right of way. (I just googled and learned that this strip of yard has many names. Huh.) The ash borer beetle has made its way to Lincoln, Nebraska, and we didn’t want to wait for the bug to do its work. So we picked Joe as our ash replacement. But personifying a tree can have poor consequences. Just look at my heart after another storm.
Joe is quite exposed to the elements. He doesn’t have another tree nearby and he doesn’t receive shelter from our home either. For years now he has bent and twisted among the prairie winds, but the past year has seen limb after limb broken.
The linden tree to the north of us looks great.
The ornamental cherry to the south is a-okay.
But Joe appears to be following the storyline from The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein only… that’s not what we’re asking of you, Joe!
Ugh.
Our entire street was once a parade of ash trees. Apparently developers in the late ‘90s/early aughts were unconcerned with aboreal diversity. Prior to that it was most likely farmland. And prior to *that* it was what all of Nebraska was before white guys showed up. Prairie. Lots of room for wind to blow, for bison to roam, for tribes to live their more-nomadic existences.
So really, why is a Kentucky Coffee Tree even in Nebraska?
We’re a plains state! We favor plants that can survive snowstorms and ice storms and then tolerate summer droughts and sun-baked clay soils. While there is incredible diversity among prairie plants (go visit UNL’s Morrill Hall to learn more), there simply were not a lot of trees around here until fairly recently.
When we moved into our current home there were beautiful twisted river oaks out back in a culvert. I loved them from the get-go, though most have been removed now for safety reasons. Those were the type of trees originally found in low-lying spots. Kentucky Coffee Trees? Not so much.
Did the first pioneer settlers cry over broken trees?
I fell in love with tomato plants in high school. Mr. Golden’s 10th grade biology class to be specific. Ten stars to Mr. Golden and his “Alive and Satisfied” project which encouraged me to grow tomatoes by myself for the first time. My dad always grew tomatoes but this was *my* project and it was for a grade, so somewhere under grow lights off of D Hallway in Lincoln Southeast High School I tried my hand at gardening.
Did my plants produce any fruit? No idea. Did I bring them home after the semester was over? Not a clue. It was the first time, though, that my hands smelled like tomato plants and that was all it took for me to want to grow them again and again.
I am 47 years old now and coming dangerously close to being out of high school for [cough cough] 30 years. Time started moving fast about 10 years ago when our daughter went to middle school and I fully anticipate it will only speed up between now and my first steps into glory. Time is weird like that. Somehow the scent of tomato plants connects all those decades together. It hopscotches among eras and picks up memories from dad’s greenhouse in Augusta, Georgia; Mr. Golden’s warm and very alive classroom; two South 8th Street gardens with tomatoes that sounded like they came from Middle Earth; and now my home garden, planted for the first time among our perennial beds.
Cucumbers are my success story so far this season. I’ve grown them in pots for years and even though I learned something about cucumber sex–sorry, cucumber *fertilization*–with myself and a paintbrush in the role of absent pollinators, pot life was not working out for any of us. This year the death of a climbing rose fortuitously opened up a spot for a vining fruit and, voila, we’ve eaten two cucumbers already.
Math-wise, I’m not certain that my harvests are hugely profitable.
However, numbers cannot determine the quality of one’s life.
I gain copious amounts of joy by gardening. The plants are my babies and I’m obsessed with their health. I had to calm down and quit googling “furling tomato leaves” because I was so concerned with my Romas’ habits. I amended the soul multiple times and eventually told them to go with God. And you know what? There are two green Romas coming along nicely, so… okay then. The cucumbers are trying to overtake the roses, their tender vines sweetly curling around absolutely anything in their paths. And apparently the pollinators, who refused to tend to the pots on my deck, are more than happy to do the cucumber mating dance in a more reasonable location on the ground. My paintbrushes can be retained for their original purposes.
I’m completely certain that my neighbors think I’m insane as I daily, or twice or thrice daily, stand by the front garden, hands on hips, surveying my earthly domain with an admiring and critical eye. Is every home gardener constantly measuring their plants and thinking about how to clip them, divide them, shuffle them, and shift them next year? Is everyone else busting with pride that the black eye susans are finally opening up? Is anyone else wondering if Joe Pye was called a weed because it kind of looks like a weed but then again… THE POLLINATORS. Are other gardeners somewhat horrified that the spireas seem dead set on absolute world domination? Anyone else planning Bunny Soup after re-seeding their zinnias three times? No? Just me?
I buy tomatoes and cucumbers to, yes, fill our bellies. Our yields have become sauce for spaghetti and soup for grilled cheese dipping as well as chili for a burst of summer in the middle of winter. The snappy cucumbers elevate summer sandwiches and are shared with friends. But mostly I fill my arms with vegetable plants as soon as garden centers open up because it makes me happy. It keeps *me* alive and satisfied long after my time in Mr. Golden’s biology class came to a close.
Throughout my entire life Jesus has been my friend. I cannot recall one solitary day in my childhood of thinking Jesus was not for me, not loving me, or not compassionate towards me. Combine that faith in Jesus with a giant creative heap of imagination and you have a version of little Rebecca who was absolutely brokenhearted by passion plays and Good Friday services. Little Rebecca grew into adult Rebecca, but my spirit was just as crushed at such services. I still haven’t seen the Passion of the Christ movie for the same reason I choose not to watch movies with excessive violence towards enslaved Black Americans. I don’t need that in my noggin. My heart is wrenched by such scenes.
I struggle every single year with what we Christians call Holy Week. I don’t like to be forced into imagining the torture of my friend and Savior Jesus. Every year I have an internal–sometimes external–argument where I tell my pretend audience that “you can’t make me repeat all of this again.” You. cannot. make. me. And just to be real clear: we’re all pretending! I mean, this already happened and now we live with a Risen Savior at the right hand of God the Father. I’ve skipped Good Friday services in order to not give in to the deeply sad feelings. Sometimes I simply do not want to cry anymore.
This year we attended a Tenebrae Service and while I did indeed cry, I also felt grateful for the physicality of the memories of Christ’s death. We used our senses to experience dark and light, to listen to mournful music, to witness the Light of Life exiting the building. And I felt camaraderie with my Savior in the depths of despair that life holds. This deep sadness? He knew it. These heartbreaking betrayals? He was there, too. My friend Jesus, the perfect man, knew the same suffering that I know, that my friends know.
Of course the story doesn’t end there. Praise God, THE STORY DOES NOT END THERE. With freedom and perfect abandon we Christians worship a Jesus who did NOT stay dead. He was the Messiah–is the Messiah, the great deliverer–and death couldn’t hold him down. He is the perfect sacrifice and scripture says he died and rose again with our names on his heart and with our sins on his shoulders. His perfect and sinless self for my broken and sinful self. Amen.
All of this believing and remembering (and even present-day pretending during Holy Week) takes faith; I will not say otherwise. I couldn’t buy into it without that leap of faith. I’m here, existing with a faith that ebbs and flows but is always present nonetheless. I’m here, with outstretched hands, receiving daily mercies and grace that come from a Father in heaven who loves me and knows me. I’m here, rejoicing in what I don’t see but what I know deep in my heart until I see our Triune God face to face in glory.
Picture this: excited students on their final day of school before holiday break. They’re hopped up on sugar cookies and dreams of no school for days on end. Popcorn! Movie! Apple cider! Gift exchange! Perler beads (Lord help us all)! Decorate your own sugar cookie! It’s all happening. The time has come for the day to end; the students begin stacking chairs, throwing away trash, breaking down tables, grabbing their things. They head for the exits and then…? A mere table bump turns into a broken-down-table cascade with an APPLE CIDER AVALANCHE. Screams! Panic! Teacher’s gonna teacher, so I grab the Clorox wipes and a giant roll of paper towels and issue orders in a calm voice. Only–as it turns out–the cider avalanche chose to flow downhill onto the finger-sized DIVOTS on the backs of all the tables. Who even knew those divots were there? And what do they even do?? Student who table bumped is extremely embarrassed and keeps muttering the words “failure” under his breath while I pollyanna the situation and encourage my students that “We can do it!” and “No worries!” and “It’s fine!” even though I feel certain there is now apple cider fermenting on spaces previously unknown to man. I have sweat beading in places the sun don’t shine but it’s an interesting finale to an epic semester. We made it. We did it! I finish vacuuming the room, pack up my precious student gifts, head home, take a shower, and Jeremy orders a pizza.
Fast forward 18 hours and picture this: I’m enjoying my first holiday morning by finishing a book on the couch when concerned noises start coming out of my husband in the kitchen. Sink something. Disposal not working. A sweet smell and a powdery residue. Eventually me and my fingers go to check out the situation and I discover that SOMEONE did SOMETHING with wax in the sink and while it smells quite lovely kitchen productions have now come to a screeching halt. This needs management. Put the kettle on, Ma, we need boiling water stat. I use a ⅓ measuring cup to portion out the waxy water that my fingers and a slotted spoon can no longer grab. A pile of paper towels, two tea kettles-full, a gallon and a half of wax-filled water, and distant memories of my calm morning later and the disposal is open but my mind is clogged by WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD SOMEONE DO THIS? Someone is at school and cannot answer for herself. I have less patience with this Someone than the Someone at school yesterday, so it’s probably good the Someone isn’t here.
Ack.
Life is messy.
Learning to be gentle around apple cider is messy.
Figuring out that wax should never go down a sink drain is messy.
Raising children is messy.
People are messy.
I am messy.
There’s no easy fix to messes, but patience, time, and a whole lot of paper towels can cure a number of ills. I don’t know what messes you’re cleaning up this week but you got this, friend. Deep breaths. You’re not alone.
