You are probably thinking, "It's time she got over it.  It's been a month."  Good grief!  This is going to go on for a while.  You can't undo 57 years in a month.

The day Ken died, I had gone to Tulsa to have cataract surgery.  It had been scheduled for a month.  Who knew?  I left him with my eldest daughter Pat and my youngest daughter Becky drove me.  I fretted.  I stewed.  I wanted to be home.  It all turned out ok, but I was a mess.

But in the middle of the day, right before I got home, God gave us all a laugh.

Pat told us:  "Daddy reached up and held my face in his hands and said, Pat, I have a confession to make to you."  Pat said that she had no idea what was coming next.

"You know how you always found stray kittens and drug them home?" he said.  "You were always bringing cats home.  We always had kittens in the house."

"That's true, I did," Pat told him.

"Well, I hate cats."

That was the confession.  Ken always kept short accounts with God.  I guess that was the only thing that was troubling him at the end.

Psalms 37: 37 "Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace."  He was very much at peace.  He just needed to let Pat know his position on cats.